Consequences of Common Civility
by Delancey654
Summary: Hogwarts, Sixth Year. Hermione Granger is assigned to tutor Draco Malfoy in Arithmancy. When the two enemies manage to find common ground, could the consequences be far-reaching enough to alter the outcome of the Second Wizarding War? Prequel to The Ginger Malfoy.
1. Chapter 1: September 1996

_**September 1996**_

Draco Malfoy glanced stealthily at his wristwatch. Only two more minutes of Arithmancy and then he could spend several uninterrupted hours until dinner in the Room of Requirement. Professor Vector announced their homework assignment - twelve inches of parchment summarizing the next two chapters of _The New Theory of Numerology_ \- and he wrote it down in a desultory fashion. When the bell rang, he hastily gathered his things and made for the classroom door.

"Just a moment, Mr. Malfoy," Professor Vector called out. He was fairly certain this was about the Dreadful he had received on his last quiz, but he couldn't be arsed to care about something as unimportant as his grades when his mother's life hinged on fixing a possibly unrepairable Vanishing Cabinet. Peeves the Poltergeist had smashed the cabinet's delicate operating mechanism well and proper. Only a few weeks into the school year, Draco knew it was beyond his current capabilities to restore the cabinet to working order.

As a back-up plan, Draco had purchased a cursed opal necklace from Borgin and Burkes. That, however, was another long-shot plan. He had no idea how to get the necklace from its hiding place in Goyle's trunk to around the headmaster's neck. Even if could manage that feat, there was no guarantee that a necklace that had killed nineteen Muggles would have the same fatal effect on a powerful wizard like Dumbledore.

He cursed under his breath as he realized Granger had stayed behind, too. Draco had done his best to avoid her this school year and had largely succeeded. She, unlike Potty and the Weasel, never went looking for trouble. Even now, she was studiously ignoring the glares and sneers he directed at her behind Professor Vector's back as he willed her to leave the classroom. Although he had more important things to worry about, like preventing a gigantic snake from eating his mother, he still preferred not to be humiliated in front of any girl, most of all the Gryffindor know-it-all.

Professor Vector evidently gave a toss for his preferences, or Granger's for that matter, as she announced that the bushy-haired swot would be tutoring him in Arithmancy until his marks returned to an acceptable level. Draco had previously rather liked the fact that Professor Vector, a Beauxbatons alumna, was indifferent to Hogwarts house rivalries and more likely to give the Slytherins a fair shake. Now he realized that she was a delusional cow.

"But Professor . . . " the Mudblood launched into an impassioned list of the reasons why Ravenclaw Kevin Entwhistle would be a better choice, even if his class rank was second to hers. For the first time in his life, Draco found himself wholeheartedly in agreement with Hermione Granger. However, her shrill protests eventually subsided once Professor Vector expressed disappointment that a prefect and aspiring Head Girl would be so unwilling to aid a fellow student.

By that time, Draco had a dull headache and had wasted almost an hour that should have been spent in the Room of Requirement, so he abruptly agreed to twice-weekly tutoring sessions and left the classroom. Granger followed in his wake, trying to schedule their first meeting. Once around a concealing corner, he grabbed her upper arms and pushed her against the tapestry-covered wall, causing a herd of embroidered unicorns to stampede. "Shut it, you stupid bint," he snarled at her, taking out his frustration on the nearest target. "We won't be meeting Thursday after dinner or any other time. I'll get Snape to sort this out."

With that, he released her abruptly and stalked away, confident that Granger was too much of a good girl to jinx him in the back, even if he richly deserved it.

(x) (x) (x)

Professor Snape allowed him to vent for precisely three minutes, dark eyes flickering between Draco's angrily flushed face and the miniature hourglass on his desk, before holding up his hand for silence.

Draco broke off immediately. After the first few cold, clipped syllables, it was very clear that he was being addressed by the stern Head of Slytherin House and not the (comparatively) indulgent godfather.

"There has been talk in the staff room about your failing marks, Draco. Some teachers, like Septima, are concerned that Lucius's incarceration is taking a toll, and wish to assist you. You cannot afford to alienate those professors, when others at this school are eager to see you expelled."

"Notwithstanding your current academic performance, which would shame even Longbottom, you are intelligent enough to perceive that the consequences, should you be forced to leave Hogwarts prematurely, would be severe." The professor paused to give his godson a very significant look before continuing. "You shall accept any assistance that is offered with at least an appearance of gratitude. Do you understand?"

With Professor Snape's eyes boring into him, Draco had no choice but to nod in assent. When his teacher's expression softened slightly, he took his chances. "Sir, I appreciate that Professor Vector has arranged for tutoring," which was unusual, since she was typically the "sink or swim" sort, "but does it have to be with the Mudblood?"

Professor Snape regarded him with cold amusement, which was more chilling than anger. "Don't whinge, Draco. That is not conduct befitting a Malfoy. As for Miss Granger, you would be well-advised to treat her with civility similar to what you afford to an intelligent half-blood, like Miss Li or Miss Davis."

Draco's eyes widened slightly in shock. The professor's instruction to treat a Mudblood with anything other than violent contempt was heresy. Even worse, he had named the only two witches at Hogwarts of less than pure blood Draco had shagged. (That had to be a sick coincidence. Draco had been discreet; it was impossible that Snape knew.)

He opened his mouth to protest, but the potions professor cut him off with an impatient gesture. "Minerva McGonagall has been active in lobbying for your expulsion. It would be unwise to give her ammunition by mistreating or insulting her Muggle-born pet. Any true Slytherin would understand your need to dissemble in these circumstances."

Draco closed his mouth with a snap and nodded curtly. Professor Snape's logic was unassailable. He had also just provided reassurance, with the subtlety that characterized their House, that he would defend Draco's behavior to any of their fellow Death Eaters or even the Dark Lord himself.

After a few minutes of potions-related conversation, Draco took his leave, intent on getting in at least a few hours of work with the Vanishing Cabinet. And on his way to the seventh floor, he would detour to the Owlery and arrange for delivery of a civil note to Granger, indicating that a tutoring session the following evening would be acceptable after all.

Professor Snape had watched Draco's departure with an inscrutable expression. Nothing in his expression betrayed his belief that Dumbledore's scheme to save Draco was even more desperate and dangerous than the Unbreakable Vow that Narcissa had begged him to undertake.

(x) (x) (x)

The following morning, breakfast at the Gryffindor table was interrupted by the swooping arrival of an eagle owl landing deliberately on Ron Weasley's plate.

"Oi, bugger off!" The lanky redhead yelled at the magnificent bird. The owl gave him a baleful look and snapped his beak threateningly before extending the parchment scroll grasped in one of his talons to the curly-haired witch in the next seat over.

She took the scroll and offered a piece of crisp bacon in exchange, ignoring Ron's warning. "Careful, Hermione! That's Malfoy's owl. He's probably trained it to bite Muggleborns."

Purus took the treat carefully, not even grazing the girl's fingers, and ruffled his feathers in affront at the red-haired boy. His master had been explicit in his instructions, forbidding him to bite or scratch the Mudblood or anyone at her table.

The young witch untied the silver ribbon around the scroll, unrolled the parchment, and read the brief message. She then looked over at the Slytherin table and nodded, unsmiling. With a swivel of his head, the owl saw his master briefly dip his platinum-bright head in acknowledgement.

"Thank you, Sir Owl. I won't need to send a written response. Another piece before you go?" The owl gently accepted the bacon, hoping there would be future deliveries to this polite, generous witch, notwithstanding her unfortunate blood status.

"Hermione, stop feeding the sodding bird! The mangy thing could take your finger off." It was the annoying boy with red hair again. Clearly a Weasley, and, like any proper familiar, Purus knew his master's views on that family of blood traitors.

The owl blinked his orange eyes thoughtfully, considering the strictures placed upon him. After a few moments of concentration, he deposited a pellet and flew off with a mocking hoot.

"Bloody owl," Ron muttered as he eyed the partially-digested mouse remains in the middle of his scrambled eggs with utter disgust as the rest of the table laughed.

"Can I see that?" Harry Potter reached a hand across the table and snagged the letter before Hermione could reply.

"Harry, it's rude to read other people's mail!" He read it quickly, ignoring her protests.

_Granger - After reconsideration, I have decided it would be advisable to accept Professor Vector's offer, on your behalf, of tutoring in Arithmancy. I am available on Thursday evenings and Sunday mornings at the times you proposed. May I suggest that we meet tomorrow evening outside the library? No response is necessary if you agree._

Harry looked across the table, concern evident in his bright green eyes. "Hermione, I don't think you should meet with Malfoy. He's a D-"

She cut him off. "Honestly, Harry! He's just a spoiled prat who likes to brag."

"He's a nasty, ferret-faced git," Ron chimed in, "and that's more than enough reason to tell him to shove off and find a snake to study with."

Hermione was scandalized. "Ron! We are _prefects_. It's our job to help students from any house, even the Slytherins."

Ron snorted at that.

Harry still looked worried. "Maybe Ron or I should come with you."

Now it was Ron's turn to be scandalized. "Harry, you've booked the Quidditch pitch tomorrow. We can't miss practice for the Ferret!"

"Really, Harry," Hermione objected, "I don't need you or Ron there distracting me as I'm trying to drill Arithmancy concepts into Malfoy's blond head."

"Fine," Harry acquiesced. "Just promise me you'll be careful, 'Mione."

"I will, Harry. I promise," she said, rolling her eyes. "But honestly, what's the worst Malfoy could do?"


	2. Chapter 2: October 1996

**_October 1996_**

A few weeks in, Draco was finding his meetings with Granger to be . . . worthwhile.

Before he started at Hogwarts, his parents had employed a litany of the best tutors that money could buy. Granger, despite her blood status, was better. With her assistance, he already had dragged his Arithmancy grade up to a low pass. More importantly, some of the concepts she was helping him with were applicable to the repair of the Vanishing Cabinet. Perhaps that was why Snape had been so insistent on Draco accepting her as a tutor.

Surprisingly, he also was finding it rather easy to obey Professor Snape's secondary order to treat Granger with civility. Really, it was nothing more than excising a single word from his vocabulary. Granger, no doubt as a result of years spent in the noxious presence of Scarhead and the Weasel, had a high tolerance for git-like behavior and was impressed by a display of even the most basic manners.

It helped that she was easy on the eyes and compared favorably to his former tutors in that she smelt of cinnamon rather than stale tobacco or pungent potions ingredients. In past years, he would have made a nasty comment and a great show of cleaning his robes if Granger accidentally brushed against him; now, Draco rather enjoyed those little touches. He also appreciated that Granger was always prompt and well-prepared for their sessions - although her track record was going to be marred if she didn't arrive in the next two minutes.

As he waited, tapping one expensive dragon leather shoe in impatience, he smiled darkly at the irony of the poster girl for Mudbloods unwittingly assisting him in his mission for the Dark Lord.

Just then, Granger pushed open the door, levitating a covered tray in her wake. She was slightly and appealingly flushed from hurrying up multiple flights of stairs from the Great Hall to the unused fourth-floor classroom they had agreed upon for their meetings, having attracted far too much attention when they attempted to study in the library.

He greeted her with a nod and briefly stood up. "Granger."

"Malfoy." After a small pause, she added, "I noticed you weren't at dinner, so I brought you some food."

He raised an eyebrow at her unexpected thoughtfulness. "Dare I ask what Potty and his Weasel did to taint it?"

"Nothing whatsoever," she answered crisply, lowering the tray to his desktop with a flick of her wand. Granger smiled at his skeptical expression. "I waited until they left for Quidditch practice before making up your plate."

"Ah, yes. Captain Potter must be working the Weasel King extra hard to get him ready for Saturday's match," Draco spoke dismissively, causing her smile to disappear.

She thought his tone was a slight directed at her friends. In reality, Draco was finding it hard to care about the Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch rivalry. Just last weekend, he had used an Unforgivable for the first time - coincidentally, on one of their Chasers - and nearly caused her to be killed. It had been a crude and desperate attempt to deliver the cursed opal necklace to Dumbledore. Predictably, it had failed.

The Dark Lord was not pleased at his lack of progress. Draco had barely slept all week, due to his master sending him recurring nightmares of his mother being brutalized and murdered as a consequence of failing his mission. Last night's had featured Narcissa's violated and lifeless body hanging from the crystal chandelier in the drawing room, with her face purple and tongue protruding.

Granger misconstrued his shudder and glared at him. "I didn't contaminate the food with my Mudblood germs."

"I didn't say you had," he answered coolly, using a wandless _Accio_ to draw the tray towards him.

As a matter of form, he scanned the food with his wand, finding nothing more than a perfectly-executed warming charm on the beef bourguignon, asparagus, and escalloped potatoes, with an equally meticulous cooling charm preserving the chocolate mousse.

He looked up at the witch. still standing in front of his desk, and gave her a half-smile. "Thanks, Granger. How'd you know to pick my favorites? You're not harboring a secret crush on me, are you?"

"Hardly, Malfoy," she rolled her eyes at him. "I simply picked what Ron dislikes."

"Probably because he can't pronounce it," Draco smirked at his own cleverness as he picked up the knife and fork.

As usual, Granger ignored his aspersions towards the ginger Weasel. "May I take a look at your homework while you eat?"

He swallowed a mouthful of tender beef before replying. "Please. I know I got the last two wrong." Draco passed the sheet of parchment to Granger, puzzled at the sudden reappearance of her smile.

He continued to eat quickly but neatly as she reviewed his answers to the ten problems Professor Vector had assigned, making the occasional notation or tick mark with her odd Muggle pencil. As soon as he'd finished the last bite of dessert, he set aside the plates and cutlery for a house elf to collect and gave Granger his full attention.

"What does Wenlock's fourth theorem tell us about the calculation of distance between two magical objects?" she asked him. Granger would never just give him the answer, but always made him work to figure it out. Draco suppressed an irritated sigh as he opened his textbook to the relevant chapter, wondering if she took the same maddening approach with the Weasel, or simply gave him the right answers out of impatience with the gangly ginger's stupidity.

Ninety minutes later, Draco gathered up his corrected homework and several pages of notes on the fourth theorem. He would review those in more detail later in the Room of Requirement and use them to re-run his preliminary calculations for the cabinet once he managed to sneak back up from the dungeons.

Sudden inspiration struck as Granger wished him a good night on her way out the door. "Granger, wait. I'll walk you back to your dorm."

That would give him an excellent reason for being on the seventh floor, in close proximity to the Room of Requirement. If he were unlucky enough to be caught by Filch, even a hag as strict as McGonagall might excuse him from detention if she thought he was out of bounds for chivalrous reasons.

Granger gave him a look of mingled surprise and wariness before decisively shaking her head. "Not necessary, Malfoy."

"It is indeed. My mother taught me that a well-bred wizard should always escort his companion to her front door."

His charming smile merely caused Granger to raise her eyebrows. "Yes, Muggles have the same custom, Malfoy, but it applies to dates. Not a study session."

While tempted to point out that wizards were inherently more civilized, he knew Granger would only be annoyed by that observation. He tried another approach. "You shouldn't be wandering around the castle by yourself so late. It might not be safe." Draco looked intently at Granger, his grey eyes soft and clouded with concern. It was a look that never failed to get him what he wanted.

Granger simply rolled her eyes and gave an exasperated sigh. "I'm a witch, Malfoy, and perfectly capable of defending myself. I'll see you on Sunday, alright?" Without waiting for his reply, she walked towards the classroom door.

Draco narrowed his eyes at the stubborn little bitch's back and hissed, "_Accio_ Granger's wand."

(x) (x) (x)

Hermione's hand was on the door knob when she heard Malfoy summon her wand. She whirled around to see the vine wood slap into his palm; he then quickly tucked it in his pants pocket for safe-keeping.

"What are you playing at? Give me my wand back!" she shrieked, torn between disbelief and anger. A thread of fear joined the mix as Malfoy walked towards her with a completely unreadable expression.

Hermione made a desperate grab for her wand, but Malfoy captured her hand with a smirk. "Careful, Granger. We're not on such intimate terms."

After nearly a month of experiencing Malfoy on his best behavior, Hermione had almost forgotten what a loathsome, evil little cockroach he could be. Not so little, she amended mentally, as she swung at him with her free hand. The last time she had done that, he'd been within an inch or two of her own height; now the top of her head barely reached the pointy chin she was aiming for.

Malfoy grabbed her wrist before she could land a punch and pushed her back against the still-closed door, making sure to angle his lower body so Hermione couldn't knee him in the groin.

Her furious brown eyes met his cold grey eyes ones before he bent his head to whisper in her ear, as if sharing a secret. "You are a very capable witch, Granger, but without your wand you are just a vulnerable girl. There are people who would _enjoy_ hurting you." Her breath hitched as pressed his body closer to hers, underscoring the nature of his warning.

Abruptly, he released her and twisted the doorknob, striding out into the corridor. "Come along, Granger. It's almost curfew."

Hermione would have liked nothing more than to refuse, or better yet hex the smug expression off his pointy ferrety face. But without her wand, she really had no choice but to follow Malfoy.

When she caught up with him, she held out her hand imperiously. "I'd like my wand back."

Either Ron or Harry would have obeyed instantly when she used that tone of voice. Malfoy just flicked an amused glance over his shoulder. "Why? So you can turn me into an amazing bouncing ferret once again? I'll give it back once we're at the entrance to the Gryffindor tower."

"I'd like to be to defend myself if we're attacked on the way, since Hogwarts is so dangerous at night."

"Sarcasm doesn't become you, Granger. You're safe enough with me."

Oddly enough, she believed him.

(x) (x) (x)

Granger hadn't said a word since he had refused to return her wand outside the fourth floor classroom. Based on his past experience with Pansy and the Greengrass sisters, Draco was expecting the silent treatment to continue for at least the next few days, but apparently Gryffindor girls were different. Granger broke her silence as they reached the seventh floor.

"Who wants to hurt me, Malfoy?"

In a classic display of Gryffindor bravado, her tone was almost nonchalant, even though he had felt her shaking when he held her pinned against the door. Looking at her appraisingly, he decided there was no harm in putting her on guard. If nothing else, he owed the Mudblood for her help with Arithmancy, and Malfoys always paid their debts.

"Crabbe has been entertaining disgusting fantasies about you for years and wouldn't hesitate to act on them if he caught you alone and without your wand." Granger looked revolted at the thought. "And watch out for Nott. He's a dark one, even more so since his father was arrested at the Department of Mysteries."

She opened her mouth and quickly shut it, obviously biting back a question. Draco would have wagered one of his smaller Gringott's vaults that it had something to do with his father, also rotting in Azkaban. Her unexpected tact deserved an additional warning.

"It's not just school boys who like to play in the mud, Granger. My uncle - " Draco broke off with a snap. Rodolphus still was a wanted fugitive, at least nominally. He wasn't about to incriminate himself. Granger was certainly clever enough to connect the dots.

After that, they walked through the castle in silence until they reached the Fat Lady's portrait, where Granger thanked him in a barely audible voice as the entrance swung open.

For once, Draco decided to play nice. "Don't forget this," he said, holding up her wand. She stepped towards him, palm outstretched. He placed the length of vine wood in her hand and closed her fingers around it, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. "Stay safe 'til Sunday, Granger."


	3. Chapter 3: November 1996

**_November 1996_**

Draco tickled the painted bowl of pears, debating what he should do.

For seven Sunday mornings running, he had made a quick detour to the kitchens on his way up from the dungeons to obtain a breakfast pastry or three from the house elves, which he had devoured with the healthy appetite of a teenaged boy on his walk up to the fourth floor for a tutoring session with Granger.

While he would never be so rude as to eat food in front of her without having brought any to share (his mother would condemn such shocking discourtesy, even to a Mudblood), Draco had taken a certain sly satisfaction in watching Granger subsist on some foil-wrapped Muggle item that looked like a small rectangle of particle board while his stomach was pleasantly full with freshly-baked goodness.

Now, the silly Mudblood had gone and changed the equation by bringing him dinner, and more than once. It would only be polite to reciprocate; however, that also implied a type of caring that made Draco acutely uncomfortable. It was one thing to take a Slytherin witch to Madame Puddifoot's as a _quid pro quo_; it was quite another to bring Granger a meal because it was a nice thing to do and because she had done the same for him.

Before Draco could reach a decision, a house-elf stuck its ugly snout outside the portrait. "Can Wobbly help you, sir?" At least it wasn't the sock-wearing freak his father had abused for years.

Draco scowled. Then, inspiration struck. He would not specifically request anything on Granger's behalf, but he would couch his request to ensure there was more than enough to share. That was serpentine reasoning at its finest.

"I'm meeting another student for a study session. Would it be possible to get some food to tide me over until the dining hall opens?"

The creature beamed at him. "Wobbly is happy to help such diligent students! Would sir and his friend be wanting a hot breakfast?"

Draco winced but didn't bother to correct the elf's inaccurate description of his relationship with Granger. "Continental is fine."

"Coming right up!" The elf snapped its bony green fingers and, within minutes, Draco was on his way with a well-stocked basket of pastries, butter, and two types of preserves, as well as untippable pots of coffee and tea with sugar, lemon slices, and jugs of milk and cream. Despite himself, he couldn't hold back a tiny grin at the thought of Granger looking up at him with soft honey-brown eyes and smiling warmly at his thoughtfulness.

(x) (x) (x)

When her wand buzzed, Hermione wanted nothing more than to bury her head under the pillow and go back to sleep. Her throat felt like sandpaper, her eyes were even worse, and now that she was awake, Ron's "celebration" of the Gryffindor Quidditch victory with Lavender Brown kept replaying in her head with vicious clarity.

A soft sound from the girl's bed caught Hermione's attention. It was a feminine snore - neither Lavender or Ron was clever enough to work around the charm that protected the girls' dormitories from male visitors - but Hermione knew it was only a matter of time until her roommate would be shagging Ron somewhere else in the castle.

For a moment, Hermione was tempted to hex Lavender bald or curse her with a case of acne that would make Marietta Edgecombe's look like a couple of zits. A spiteful cow like Pansy Parkinson wouldn't have hesitated to lift her wand, but Hermione's overly developed sense of fair play asserted itself.

Thinking about the Slytherin witch reminded Hermione that her wand had woken her on a Sunday while it was still dark because she had an early morning appointment with Pansy's better half. Or worse half? No, this year at least Malfoy was definitely the former. Parkinson still had her pug-like nose in the air and never failed to make a nasty comment whenever Hermione was unfortunate enough to be in her general vicinity, while Malfoy had been generally subdued, even occasionally bordering on civil.

With a sigh, she grabbed her wand from the nightstand and padded off to the bathroom. As much as she wanted to skive off this morning, there wasn't enough time to send an owl to the dungeons and it would be terribly inconsiderate to leave Malfoy waiting.

(x) (x) (x)

Draco suppressed a sigh of irritation as Granger sniffled for the fifth time in less than fifteen minutes. The girl was a mess, with red-rimmed eyes and even more outrageous hair than usual.

To his extreme annoyance, after all of his internal debate and efforts to bring her breakfast, her only reaction had been a muttered thanks. The ungrateful witch had barely sipped at her tea and had taken just a single scone, at his urging, only to crumble it rather than eating it.

He flipped the pages of his Arithmancy textbook viciously, nearly tearing the parchment. If she had been ill, he would have cancelled their meeting and sent her back to her room to sleep. But Granger insisted she was fine.

If she had a meritorious reason to be upset - say, if her familiar had passed through the Veil - Draco would not have been averse to comforting her. Truth be told, a concept with which he was at least passingly familiar, he would have liked an excuse to place an arm around her shoulders and stroke her hair, to see if it was as soft and fluffy as it looked. But he had seen Granger's ugly orange feline just this morning, strutting around near the dungeons as though he owned them.

In fact, Draco had strong suspicions as to why she was in such a state, and was less than pleased. Pansy had burst into the Slytherin common room late last night, Urquhart in hand, to loudly announce that the Weasel King and Lavender Brown were monopolizing the Astronomy Tower. Pansy had been torn between glee at being the first to relay malicious gossip about one of the Golden Trio and annoyance at having to remove her amorous activities to the Seventh Year boys' unkempt dormitory.

Frankly, Draco had thought better of Granger, that she wasn't one to cry over any boy, let alone the ginger pauper. Certainly he had never been able to elicit that reaction from her.

The sixth sniffle snapped his wafer-thin patience. He snatched a handkerchief from his pocket and thrust it at her. A direct demand that she tell him what was wrong would be futile, but he hadn't been sorted into Slytherin solely on the basis of family connections.

Granger took the offered handkerchief with a watery smile. "Thanks, Malfoy."

He waved off her thanks and looked intently and sympathetically into her eyes, close enough that he could count each long eyelash. "Did something happen to your parents?"

Granger literally blanched. "Wh-what?" she stuttered, brown eyes wide in alarm. "No, I haven't heard that anything happened to them." Then her eyes narrowed dangerously. "Why would you ask that?"

"We live in dangerous times, Granger. I know you read the _Daily Prophet_. You don't need me to tell you that your parents might be targeted." Draco held out his hands, conveying without words that he was not seeking a confrontation. And truly, he was not really looking for a fight - just a subtle bit of mental needling to help Granger realize the ultimate unimportance of the redheaded loser she was mooning over.

Her shoulders slumped. "I know. I'm trying to protect them with blood wards, but - " She stopped abruptly, recollecting to whom she was speaking.

Malfoy regarded her with speculation. Granger had turned seventeen after the term had begun - he had witnessed the raucous celebration at the Gryffindor table back in September with a sneer on his face - which meant she had somehow circumvented the trace on underage magic, probably by using someone else's wand. Interesting to know that the Gryffindor princess wasn't as much of a stickler for the rules as he had assumed.

"Blood wards are the strongest," he observed mildly. "Particularly if you have layered wards from multiple generations." Malfoy Manor had perhaps the most formidable protections of any private residence in wizarding Britain for precisely that reason, not that those wards would do a damn bit of good now that his father had invited the Dark Lord to move in.

"I _know_, Malfoy. But it's still not good enough," she told him, evidently frustrated.

"Why don't you send your parents away?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"They won't go. They love their home, and they've spent years building their dental practice, and - " Granger was growing increasingly agitated as she spoke.

Draco interrupted, incredulous. "Are you mental? You're a witch - _make_ them go."

"Are you serious? They would never forgive me."

"I am deadly serious, Granger. I would do it in a heartbeat for my - if I were in your shoes," he finished, rather lamely.

From the startled and then thoughtful look that flitted across Granger's face, the witch had noted his slip. "Duly noted," she said quietly, with unexpected subtlety.

Misdirection was in order. "So, if not your parents, what has your knickers in a twist? It's obvious you've been crying. Your eyes are as red as your Gryffindor jumper."

Granger self-consciously smoothed the sleeve of the hand-knit sweater. "I have allergies, Malfoy."

He hummed, skeptically. "You were fine Friday afternoon in DADA - you nearly hexed Nott's nose off, and he's quick with his wand. So you expect me to believe that something you're allergic to came into bloom over the weekend, in the Scottish highlands, in November?"

"Something like that," Granger muttered, not meeting his eyes.

Now Draco was enjoying himself. He propped his feet up on the desk, wholly relaxed. "Hmmm, perhaps _lavandula augustifolia_? Common English lavender?"

"Common being the operative word," Granger snarked.

Draco smiled at the show of claws. "I can't say I disagree. Did the Brown bint hook up with Potty or the Weasel? Or perhaps both at the same time?"

Granger looked at him with shocked brown eyes. "Both? That's disgusting, Malfoy! Harry and Ron would never do that." She wrinkled her nose at the thought, and Draco had to admit it was rather cute.

"Ah, the charming innocence of Gryffindors. Other than Miss Brown, of course." Draco linked his hands behind his head and smirked at Granger, who predictably rose to the bait.

"Did you and Lavender ever, um - "

"Fuck? Shag?" Making Granger blush was certainly much more fun than studying Arithmancy. Draco dropped his feet back to the floor and leaned forward with his hands on his knees, grey eyes bright with malicious mischief. "Tell me which of the Dubious Duo was swapping spit with the Brown slag and I'll see if I can't satisfy your rampant curiously."

Granger hesitated for a moment and then answered, realizing she wasn't giving anything away. Ron and Lavender hadn't been discreet and the rumors would be all around the castle before the weekend was over. "Ron. Lavender was snogging Ron."

Draco nodded once, decisively. "She's perfect for the Weasel King. Shoddy quality and used goods, just what he's used to."

Granger snorted with laughter before automatically reprimanding him. "That's cruel, Malfoy."

He grinned, utterly unrepentant. "But undeniably true. Oh, and the answer to your question - whether I shagged the bint - is absolutely not. Unlike Weasley, I actually have standards."

She shook her head at him, but couldn't suppress a grin.

"Have a scone, Granger - don't let the elf labor go to waste." Draco held out the basket invitingly and she obligingly took one.

He congratulated himself on the success of his unorthodox methods of cheering her up. She hadn't sniffled once during their conversation and was looking much less dejected.

"Thanks, Malfoy. This is really good." Now she was giving him that grateful look he wanted, with her brown eyes glowing and her rosy lips curved in a smile, and the way that made him feel was even better than he had anticipated.

After a few more bites, Granger dabbed delicately at her mouth with one of the napkins. Draco tracked the movement and found himself leaning forward, unable to tear his eyes away from her slightly parted lips.

"Malfoy, what are you doing?" she asked, puzzled. He was absolutely transfixed by the subtle way her lips moved as she spoke.

Rather than answering in words, he moved even closer, until their noses were nearly touching and he could feel faint puffs against his skin as she breathed. Almost delicately, Draco cupped his hand behind her neck and pulled her forward until their lips touched, in a soft, sweet first kiss.

(x) (x) (x)

Malfoy had been acting odd all morning, so Hermione initially thought nothing of it when he started staring at her mouth. Self-consciously, she patted a napkin against her lips to remove whatever crumb had captured his attention.

It had been a pleasant surprise when he had shown up with a basket from the kitchen, with more than enough to share. Hermione wasn't really hungry, but she took a cup of tea and scone to be polite. Harry would have been aghast, convinced that Malfoy had poisoned either her food or drink, but she was frankly sick of his Death Eater paranoia.

Harry was not exactly in her good books at present, with his unwavering loyalty to Ron. The boys always seemed to stick together and leave her as the odd one out. Harry's inarticulate stammering of "er" in lieu of any words of comfort simply didn't cut it as a response to Ron's betrayal in snogging Lavender in front of the whole of Gryffindor house mere days after he had agreed to go as _her _date to the Slug Club Christmas party.

Malfoy, for all of his undeniable shortcomings as a human being, had succeeded in making her feel better where Harry had failed. Honestly, Hermione found Malfoy's biting sense of humor to be rather clever and amusing - particularly when directed at someone else.

His advice about her parents also provided food for thought. She wouldn't _Imperio_ them - for one thing, it wouldn't work unless she remained in close proximity - but perhaps there was some lesser compulsion charm she could use to get them out of England. She would have to do some more research, now that Malfoy had ever so subtly confirmed her fear that her parents were targets.

Just now, though, it seemed like he was back to being his usual git-like self, leaning forward and examining her mouth like there was a cold sore forming.

"Malfoy, what are you doing?" Her question came out soft, almost breathless, rather than tart as she intended.

He ignored her question and leaned forward even further, close enough that she could see that his pupils were dilated and his eyes were not a uniform, flat grey, but rather were a mosaic of colors ranging from silver to slate. She caught a faint whiff of something lemony and realized it was Malfoy's undoubtedly expensive and hand-milled French soap.

Soap, not cologne, her brain automatically processed. Ron had taken to wearing a woodsy cologne this past summer - that had been the third thing she had smelled in Professor Slughorn's Amorentia at the start of term, damn her teenage hormones and pheromones - and she could readily distinguish between the light soap scent and the heavier, more processed smell of a cologne. And even if it was early in the morning, and even if Malfoy was freshly showered, the logical part of Hermione's mind knew that he still shouldn't be close enough that she could pick up on that subtle lemon verbena scent.

Hermione was intending to again ask Malfoy what he was doing, but then his fingers were curled around the back of her neck, with his pinky brushing the sensitive nape, and she didn't have to be the so-called brightest witch of her age to figure it out.

If she had ever thought about kissing Malfoy, and Hermione would swear that had happened only once or twice, when she was close to delirious from studying for her O.W.L. exams, she would have expected him to kiss her like he owned her, as befitted a Malfoy and a Mudblood. But his kiss was almost tentative, inviting her rather than demanding. Impulsively, Hermione gave the kiss her whole-hearted participation, shifting closer to Malfoy, parting her lips and flicking her tongue against his still-closed mouth, and giving into the temptation of running her fingers through his silky-soft blond hair.

In the back of her mind, she could practically hear Harry screaming for her to stop, and could picture Ron turning an unflattering shade of puce, but that only goaded her to turn the kiss into a full-blown snog. If Ron could eat Lavender's face off in public, Hermione saw no reason why she shouldn't twine her tongue with Slytherin's serpent prince in private. It was a very nice first kiss, or series of kisses, if one were being precise. When she broke it off, slowly pulling away, Hermione more than half-expected Malfoy to ruin it with a snarky comment at her expense.

"What was that, Malfoy?" she asked, then mentally kicked herself for creating an opening for the inevitable insult.

Instead, he looked at her, his grey eyes darker than she had ever seen him, and unconsciously licked his lips. "That, princess, is incontrovertible proof that Malfoys have higher standards and better taste than Weasels."


	4. Chapter 4: December 1996

_**December 1996**_

With a sneer, Draco watched the crowd of Sixth Year students exiting the Charms classroom in the direction of the Great Hall. Professor Flitwick permitted any student who achieved an "Acceptable" O.W.L. to continue with the subject, so it was well-subscribed. Indeed, Draco would go so far as to say it was over-subscribed, populated by the magical dregs.

Longbottom stumbled past, nearly falling flat on his face as he tripped over Draco's highly polished (and outstretched) dragonhide loafer, perfectly illustrating Flitwick's over-inclusiveness. He was followed by exhibits two and three: the Brown bint and Weasel King, with the latter too occupied in sucking his girlfriend's lips off to even offer Draco his usual paltry insult about what it was like to have a gaol bird for a father.

Draco had been among the first out the door, given his usual seat in the back of the classroom flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. He'd given them permission to proceed to dinner without him; he had found they grumbled less about standing guard outside the Room of Requirement when their stomaches were full. He had chosen to linger outside the Charms classroom to enjoy the show, to watch Blaise Zabini "work his magic," as the dark-haired boy cockily described it.

According to Blaise, any female between the ages of ten and a hundred was susceptible to his exotic, dark good looks. He boasted that even Professor McGonagall had been persuaded to increase his mark on a Transfiguration exam through judicious application of the Zabini charm, a claim that Draco shudderingly hoped was nothing more than _braggadocio_ run amuck.

Still, that boast had quite naturally lent itself to a friendly Slytherin wager: back in November, Draco had bet Blaise two hundred Galleons that he would be unable to break up Gryffindor's latest golden couple before the Slug Club's Christmas party, now a mere week away. In addition to machismo, Blaise's reasons for taking the bet were straightforward: his mother was currently single and had curtailed her son's allowance as a result, preferring to spend her money on flattering clothing, magical cosmetics, and trips to exotic locales to ensnare husband number eight.

Draco's motive, in contrast, was convoluted enough to make Salazar Slytherin proud. He didn't _really_ want Brown and Weaselbee to break up. If they did, there was a chance - albeit an increasingly slim one - that the ginger orangutan would make a successful play for Granger. Rather, Draco wanted to incite the Weasel's jealous temper, to orchestrate any number of scenes where the redhead would publicly assert his claim over his slaggy girlfriend. Because he had noticed that Granger, who was ordinarily a sensible, level-headed girl, would watch those little scenes with no expression on her face and then show up at their tutoring sessions willing to snog him, and more, very much against her better judgement. And since Granger's kisses and caresses were the brightest spots in Draco's increasingly bleak world, he wanted - and perhaps needed - to keep her in a snit with the ginger tosser.

Blaise, after an exchange of knowing smirks with Draco, interrupted the snogging couple with a light tap on Lavender's shoulder. "Hey, Lavie," he greeted the blonde, white teeth flashing, "I was wondering if we could meet up in the library later to work on that Hardening Charm. You seem to have a real knack for it."

Lavender fluttered her eyelashes, giggling at the innuendo. "Oooh, Blaise, I'd love to, but I don't know if I can. I was going to go watch Won-Won's Quidditch practice."

She purposefully thrust out her chest as she spoke to the handsome Slytherin, making her large breasts even more prominent. Draco sneered. As anyone who had observed Weasel in the dining hall could attest, the ginger moron looked for quantity over quality, including in his girlfriend.

"Bugger off, Zabini," the redhead growled, knocking his shoulder into the Slytherin boy. "I keep Lavender too busy for her to have any time to spend with snakes."

Granger, leaving the classroom with Scarhead, briefly surveyed the scene with a neutral look on her face and then walked on, deliberately stepping close enough that her robes brushed against Draco's.

"What are looking at, pet?" he called after her. He'd abandoned "Mudblood" as an insult in September; happily, Granger was equally flustered - but not equally furious - when he publicly addressed her using mock endearments.

"Nothing whatsoever, Ferret," she sniffed, nose in the air.

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco watched Granger flounce down the hallway, curls bouncing and her baggy robes failing to disguise the sway of her shapely hips and bottom. Given her temper, and her lovely tendency to work out her anger by snogging him senseless, he could look forward to tangling his hands in her hair and squeezing and cupping that pert arse - sadly, over her uniform skirt or Muggle denims, since Granger had set some very clear boundaries - when they met up later for his tutoring session.

Draco smirked in anticipation. Merlin, at least in some respects, Gryffindors were easy.

"Y'know, I was thinking," Zabini began, as the two Slytherin boys sauntered towards the dining hall in Granger's wake.

"Dangerous occupation, that," Draco observed, eyes still subtly tracking the curly-haired witch ahead of them. "And sufficiently remarkable that you felt the need to share?"

"Shut it, arsehole," his dark friend stated mildly. "I need to ask a witch to Sluggy's Christmas party and the thought crossed my mind that Granger might be into interhouse unity. She has been _tutoring_ you, after all."

The words had barely left his mouth, with just that faint, suggestive intonation, when Draco flung Blaise up against the stone wall. "Stay away from her, unless you fancy having your bits served up to the Giant Squid as a snack," he growled, his wand digging into the other wizard's neck.

Unexpectedly, Blaise laughed and held up his hands in surrender. "Tell me how you _really_ feel about Granger, Malfoy. Or do you call her Hermione now?"

Draco lowered his wand, but only slightly, realizing he had been played by his fellow Slytherin.

"Your secret's safe with me, bro," Blaise reassured him, dark eyes unexpectedly sympathetic. "I know the pressure you're under. Though talk about living life on the edge. If _he_ found out about Granger . . . " His voice trailed off.

"It's just physical," Draco insisted, trying to sound convincing. "You know how I get about other people touching my things."

"Yeah, you can be a possessive bastard," Zabini agreed, apparently convinced. Until he smirked and spoke again.

"Drake, how 'bout we renegotiate the terms of our little bet? Three hundred Galleons to me, and I'll pretend to pant after Lav-Lav as long as you'd like me to," Blaise suggested with a wink. "That will keep the Weasel King on his toes and leave you an open field to play with a certain curly-haired witch. And, as always, you can count on my discretion in every respect."

Draco smirked back, not entirely amused at how quickly his cunning friend had perceived his underlying motives in offering the original bet. He didn't like to be transparent. Still, an additional hundred Galleons to purchase Zabini's silence regarding Granger was a bargain, particularly since it was a secret that could potentially cost Draco his life.

(x) (x) (x)

The following week, Draco found himself in the Hogwarts library, wishing, as per usual, that Harry Potter would just _go away_. However, the Boy Who Lived to Annoy kept nattering on in Granger's ear, preventing Draco from approaching her.

It wasn't their usual tutoring night, but he still wanted to see her. With only a couple of days left until the holiday break, exams were over, essays had all been handed in, and the library was nearly deserted as a result. There were only a few students scattered around the cavernous space, most of those nerdy Ravenclaws with their noses firmly embedded in a book, so Draco could enjoy an undisturbed conversation with Granger, maybe even draw her back into the stacks for a quick snog.

Quite simply, Draco wanted to steal as much time as possible with her before he had to head home to the Manor for what promised to be a white-knuckled, bollocks-shriveling couple of weeks. The only impediment to Draco's plan was that Scarhead wouldn't _go away. _Worse yet, from Draco could make out of the whispered conversation between the two Gryffindors, he kept trying to play peacemaker between Granger and the ginger pauper.

"He's at perfect liberty to kiss whomever he likes," she told Potter in a prim tone. "I really couldn't care less."

Draco liked the first sentence, because the logical corollary was that Granger, too, was at perfect liberty to kiss whomever she liked - namely, himself. He wished the second sentence were true, but knew it wasn't. If she truly didn't care about Weaselbee and Brown, she wouldn't be seeking refuge in the library to avoid them. And she wouldn't be seeking distraction with him in his arms, as much as Draco hated to admit it.

"And incidentally, you need to be careful," Granger cautioned. Listening from the next aisle over, Draco tensed, wondering if he had somehow given himself away. She was too clever by half and he had been rather unguarded around her in recent weeks.

" . . . but I've learned more from the Half-Blood Prince than . . . ," Potter whined.

Draco's ears perked up at the intelligence that some unknown wizard was teaching Potter and Granger objected. His master would be very interested. Perhaps this tidbit would be enough to satisfy him, or at least keep the Dark Lord from torturing him or, even worse, his mum. However, the four-eyed git's voice annoyingly faded to an indistinct mumble. Hadn't anyone ever taught Pothead to enunciate?

"I'm not talking about your stupid so-called Prince," Granger said clearly. Draco puzzled over who she could be referring to. With the exception of the Dark Lord, wizards generally didn't adopt noble or royal titles, and it would take a brave or foolish wizard indeed to select a rank higher than that of Lord Voldemort.

Now Granger was warning Potty to watch out for Romilda Vane, who was apparently plotting to dose him with a love potion to get an invite to the Slug Club party tomorrow night. Draco suppressed a snicker at the thought of Scarhead panting after that minger, and wondered if he could somehow persuade Millie Bulstrode to jump on the Potter bandwagon. Or just jump Potter - it was all the same to him.

Sluggy's Christmas party was a sore point. In addition to having to warn Zabini away from Granger, Draco had been pestered by any number of Slytherin slags to go as their escort. He'd turned down both Carrow twins and both Greengrass sisters, despite their impeccable bloodlines and passable good looks. If he couldn't go with the witch of his choice - and wouldn't that just set the Kneazle among the pigeons, if he showed up with Granger on his arm! - then he would put the night to good use, working on the Merlin-damned Vanishing Cabinet while everyone else was making merry with Professor Slughorn. And he didn't even want to think about Granger going with some other wizard.

"So why couldn't Malfoy have brought the necklace into the school?" Draco's attention snapped back to the conversation as Potter mentioned his name.

"Oh, Harry . . . not that again . . . " Granger sounded exasperated. Draco would bet his Nimbus she was rolling her eyes at the Chosen Git.

"Come on, why not?" Potty whined.

Draco rolled his own eyes and wished he could tell Potter exactly why not: unlike the Clueless One, he was far too intelligent to risk being caught in the possession of a cursed magical object. That was what underlings, minions, accomplices (even if they had to be Imperiused), and dupes were for.

"But something that's just been put in the wrong bottle wouldn't register - "

That was so unbelievably brilliant - even for Granger - that Draco could have kissed her. In fact, he _would_ kiss her, if her wanker of a best friend ever removed his spectacled arse from the vicinity.

In the meantime, he reviewed his next steps. Madam Rosmerta delivered a quite shocking number of bottles and casks to the professors on a regular basis. Presumably, a holiday shipment would be coming to the castle from the Three Broomsticks any day now. Draco would contact Rosmerta by their linked Galleons - another Granger special - and make sure that Dumbledore's beverage of choice had some extra kick to it. With any luck, the old man would drink the poison over the holidays, when Draco was safely back in Wiltshire. Or as safe as he could be, with the Dark Lord under the same roof.

Draco froze as Madam Pince swooped down on Granger and Potter, announcing the library was closed. When she launched into a hissed diatribe at Potty's treatment of his textbook, he took advantage of the distraction to slink off in the opposite direction, undetected.

(x) (x) (x)

Hermione wasn't quite sure how she had gotten here, astride Malfoy's lap with her pink party dress unzipped and shoved down around her waist, reviewing the incantations and wand motions for contraceptive charms in the tiny portion of her mind that still was capable of rational thought. Most of her brain was too preoccupied with how good Malfoy's hands and mouth were making her feel.

Well, she knew how she'd gotten _here_, if one were referring to this particular dusty old classroom. She had extricated herself from Cormac McLaggen when he tried to pull her under the mistletoe for only the fourth time and then sneaked away from Professor Slughorn's party, wanting nothing more than to make her way to her comfortable four-poster bed in Gryffindor tower.

Just before the marble staircase, Malfoy had softly called her name from inside a darkened classroom. She had seen him gatecrash the Slug Club soirée from across the room, but they didn't dare approach each other in such a public setting. Still, Hermione had been conscious of his mocking grey stare and matching smirk at her efforts to avoid McLaggen's tentacle-like arms. She had returned that smirk, with interest, when Professor Snape accosted Malfoy and dragged him away by the ear, metaphorically speaking.

Once inside the classroom, away from prying eyes, Hermione was able to take a closer look at Malfoy and was alarmed by what she saw. He was even paler than usual, creating a stark contrast to the dark shadows under his eyes.

"Malfoy, are you doing all right?" she had asked.

"Much better, now that you're here," he had breathed against her hair, pulling her close.

It was a charming, evasive non-answer, and Hermione hadn't been fooled. She had drawn away, giving him a searching look with a stubborn set to her jaw. "You don't have to put on a front for me when we're alone, you know. Is it your mum? Or your father?"

He had stiffened, and she had been certain he wouldn't answer, or maybe even would lash out at her like the old Malfoy. She knew he worried about his mother, but he never mentioned his father, mouldering in Azkaban. Then he had slumped against her, burying his face between her neck and shoulder.

"It's going to be a hard Christmas. I'm dreading going home, but my mum needs me," he mumbled against her neck.

The raw emotion in his voice made her want to cry. "I'm sorry," she offered inadequately, stroking his baby-fine hair.

Malfoy raised his eyes to meet hers, apparently gauging her sincerity and his response. "You're very sweet," he said, almost regretfully. Then his familiar, cocky smirk was back in place. "Perhaps you can kiss it better?" he inquired insouciantly, sitting on the professor's chair and pulling her onto his lap.

She had done her best, kissing him with an intensity that had them both gasping and grasping for more. When his grey eyes had met hers in a wordless request, with his hand on her zip, Hermione had nodded her consent. She had done the same minutes later when he went to unclasp her bra. This was uncharted territory for them: her blouse may have gotten unbuttoned during their prior fooling around, and her bra might have been moved aside, but both garments always had stayed on.

After an appreciative perusal, long enough that Hermione's blush had time to travel from her cheeks to tops of her now-exposed breasts, Malfoy wrapped one hand around the back of her neck and resumed kissing her, with Hermione relishing the sensation of their bare chests rubbing together. She was surprised when he wrenched his lips away from hers. She, not Malfoy, was always the one to call a halt to their non-academic activities. But he wasn't asking her to stop.

"I want you to mark me," he requested in a hoarse voice.

Hermione took in his tousled platinum hair, reddened lips, and the slightly glazed, almost desperate, expression in his eyes. "Please," he added. "I want _you_ to mark me," he repeated.

This also was uncharted territory. They were so careful when they met to not create any evidence that they were studying subjects far more interesting that Arithmancy. If she had ever returned from their tutoring sessions the slightest bit disheveled, Harry and Ron would commit bloody murder. She wasn't sure what consequences, if any, Malfoy would face in the Slytherin dungeons.

As requested, she lowered her mouth to his neck, sucking softly and nipping at the pulse point just above where his collar would be if she hadn't shoved his Oxford shirt down his shoulders. From the moans he was emitting and the way his hands tightened, one on her breast and the other gripping her thigh, the blond wizard was intensely enjoying what she was doing to him.

Hermione knew Malfoy wouldn't stop unless she told him to. As his hand traveled up her thigh, pushing up her skirt, she realized she wasn't at all inclined to tell him so. In part - a very petty part - she was goaded on by Lavender's giggling comment to Parvati that she needed to stock up on Contraceptive Potion over the Christmas holidays, now that she and Won-won were "doing it." Hermione knew that tit for tat with Ronald Weasley was an exceedingly poor reason to give up her virginity to Draco Malfoy, but the other reasons tumbling through her head were harder to refute in her current aroused state.

What he was doing felt _so _good, and she knew instinctively it would feel even better if she allowed him to continue. And Malfoy made her feel good in a different, more important sense. It was heady flattery to know that one of the most attractive boys at Hogwarts wanted her, and didn't just see her as a walking encyclopedia or someone to be made fun of in Transfiguration class. She was sick and tired of being always taken for granted. Malfoy, for all that she was tutoring him, never expected her to do his homework and always, always thanked her. Just now, he was showing his gratitude in an especially delightful way, one that made her gasp and then reciprocate by shimmying against the hard bulge in his trousers.

Seeking to anchor herself, physically and mentally, Hermione ran her hands down Malfoy's arms. Early on, she had unbuttoned his shirt in order to press herself against his hard, lean chest. She hadn't yet tackled the cufflinks, so the expensive Egyptian cotton was still bunched around his forearms. Under her hands, she felt warm skin, wiry muscle; and soft hair that she knew was an almost translucent light blond. It felt _right_ touching Malfoy like this, using him as support while her body hummed in pleasure from the sensation of his teasing mouth alternating between her nipples.

Her right hand moved lower, and the very edge of her palm brushed against something _wrong_. It made her want to jerk her hand away as though from a hot stove, even though it felt cool, like snakeskin. Through sheer force of will, Hermione kept herself from flinching away. Instead, she lightly brushed the heel of her hand over the same spot. Once again, she felt the same odd texture and instinctive revulsion.

Malfoy was too busy with her breasts to have noticed her reaction, thank Godric, but he noticed the tension in her body as she loosely wrapped her arms around his waist, trying to buy herself a moment to think. "Am I going too fast? Do you want me to stop?" he asked.

Hermione nibbled on her lips. The safest thing would be to call a halt, to go and tell a teacher there was something inimical on Malfoy's left forearm, but she didn't yet know if it was the Dark Mark. It could be a harmless scar; it could even be that her imagination had bought into Harry's "Malfoy is a Death Eater" theory.

"Would you take off your shirt?" she asked nervously. She had to see for herself, to find out if he really had taken the Mark.

Malfoy arched a blond eyebrow. "I might, if you would take off your dress."

She had expected an outright refusal, rather than Slytherin bargaining. Malfoy's proposal that she strip down to her knickers certainly upped the ante. It also would leave her very vulnerable indeed if he were a junior Death Eater, since her wand was in a concealed pocket in her dress. Malfoy was clever enough that he could be gambling she would never agree. If so, she was calling his bluff.

"Okay," she agreed nervously, slipping off his lap.

"Ladies first," he stated, steely grey eyes fixed on her face.

With a jerky nod, Hermione slid the silky material down her legs and stepped out of her crumpled dress. She wasn't wearing stockings, just a lacy pair of knickers, and could feel her cheeks getting hot at the realization of just how much Malfoy could see.

A strangled sound made her glance up from the floor, to discover Malfoy was no longer looking at her face. Instead, his eyes were running up and down her body. "You are beautiful," he breathed. The obvious sincerity from a boy who had once derided her as filthy made her toes curl with pleasure.

"Your turn," she stated. He fumbled with his cufflinks, refusing to tear his eyes away from her. Hermione had never seen his eyes look so dark, the silvery grey turned stormy with desire. Malfoy summarily stripped off his shirt and flung it somewhere in the classroom. Hermione drank in the sight of a shirtless Draco Malfoy, offering up a silent thanks to Morgana and Nimue that his left arm was as pale and perfect as the rest of him.

"What are you doing?" she demanded nervously, as his hands dropped to his belt.

"Don't worry, princess," Malfoy reassured her with a smirk. "I'll keep my shorts on until you tell me otherwise. But we'll both be more comfortable this way." As he spoke, he unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his trousers, shoving them low on his hips and allowing his erection to partially spring free, above the waistband of his boxers.

Hermione settled herself once again on his lap, giving herself over to his honeyed tongue and roving hands, enjoying the sensation of the head of his cock pressed firmly up against her knickers and very slightly inside her as she rocked against him, allowing a teasing preview for both of them how full penetration would feel. It was lovely for a few minutes, until Malfoy reached his left hand down to stroke her bottom. Then she felt it again, that cold, slimy wrongness brushing against the small of her back. This time, she couldn't repress her instinctive reaction, as her body flinched and tensed.

"Too much, Her- Granger? We can stop if you wish," Malfoy murmured against her lips.

Hermione thought quickly. She had read up on the Dark Mark earlier in the year, hoping to disprove Harry's conviction that Malfoy was a Death Eater. Nothing she had read suggested the Mark could be covered by a Glamour. Typically, dark magic like that couldn't be concealed, at least by a standard charm, but Malfoy was a skilled wizard. She couldn't just ignore that there was something that felt off on his inner left forearm, precisely where Voldemort branded his followers. Whatever it took, she was going to find out what Malfoy was concealing.

"I think perhaps it's best if I get off your lap," Hermione said, putting word into deed as she stood up.

A flash of pure disappointment crossed his face. "As you wish, princess. I take it we're done for the evening?"

She stepped closer to the chair, where he was still seated, and ran a hand through his hair. "What will you do after I leave?" she inquired, hoping the query came out as flirtatious rather than interrogatory.

Malfoy jerked in surprise and gave her a very odd look. Hermione ruefully decided she was utter rubbish at being a sex kitten. "About this, I mean?" she clarified, gesturing at the very erect penis poking up from his trousers.

He smirked up at her, eyes dark and hooded with lust. "I'll wank myself off while fantasizing about you, Granger. What else would I do?"

She ignored his question, because she could think of any number of unsavory things he might be doing if there were a Dark Mark on his arm. Instead, she responded with a question of her own. "Would you let me do that for you?"

"Oh, fuck, yeah!" Malfoy assented with randy enthusiasm. "If you're sure," he added hastily.

Hermione wasn't at all sure this was a good plan, but she was going to carry it through. But not kneeling between Malfoy's legs like a good little Muggleborn pet. To cover her discomfort, she Transfigured Malfoy's robes, discarded before she had arrived in the classroom, into a mattress covered with black satin sheets.

With cat-like grace, Malfoy lay down on the makeshift mattress. "Nice work, Granger," he complimented. "Very comfortable."

She smiled weakly, settling herself next to him. During their study sessions, Hermione had noticed that when Malfoy relaxed, he put his hands behind his head. He did so now, leaving his inner forearms exposed, just as she had hoped.

Taking a deep breath, she tugged down his shorts. With Malfoy intently watching her, Hermione reached out and stroked with tentative fingers.

"You've never done this before, have you?" he asked. Hermione flushed and felt _him_ twitch under her hand.

"Granger," he said, reaching out to touch her wrist. "Relax. It's not an exam," he grinned at her. "I'm going to enjoy whatever you do. I promise, my cock isn't breakable."

"Okay, Malfoy," she acknowledged, continuing with the experimental touches as his eyes fluttered shut. _This_ made him smile, _that_ made him moan, and _that_ made him invoke Salazar's snake. The entire time, her eyes were fixed on his left arm as she silently recited revealing charms with no result.

"_Oleguenti tepidus_," he muttered softly. "Try it. Same wand motion as _aguamenti_, but second swish is to the left."

The application of warm lotion made him groan with pleasure. Hermione kept her wand in her left hand, since non-verbal spells were almost impossible without a wand. Her right hand continued to work mechanically, with Malfoy now writhing in pleasure as she figured out the best combination of pressure and pace.

"Please don't stop, Granger," he begged. "It feels so good."

She carried on, eyes narrowed in concentration.

"Please, Hermione! I'm getting close," he advised.

So was she, with a telling dark blur now visible to her on his left arm.

She broke through and had her first clear glimpse of the leering skull with a snake slithering through the empty eye sockets just as Malfoy jerked and shuddered under her hand, spending himself on his stomach as she stared in horror at the Mark convulsing under the skin of his forearm. In revulsion, she let go of him, wiping her hand on the Transfigured sheet. She willed herself to maintain the same blank face she employed whenever Ron flaunted Lavender in front of her.

"Thank you," Malfoy said with utmost sincerity, grey eyes warm with affection as he came down from his peak. "That was fucking _brilliant_."

On autopilot, she made some sound in acknowledgment as she Scourgified her hands and his body with a quick wave of her wand.

"It tickles!" he laughingly complained, rolling to his side to escape. The temptation to hit him with something far more serious than a _Scourgify_ was almost overwhelming, but Hermione could not bring herself to attack when he was so defenseless.

After a moment, he rolled back in her direction. Malfoy had a tiny smile curving his lips and looked happier than Hermione had seen him in weeks. Utterly satisfied, utterly satiated, and not even bothering to pull up his boxers to cover his softening cock. It was the first one she had ever seen outside of a book, but Hermione was fairly certain he had nothing to be ashamed of in that department.

The true shame was the despicable Dark Mark branded into his left arm, hidden - but not carefully enough - by a glamour charm. Now that she had revealed it, she couldn't stop seeing it. Briefly, she wondered if Malfoy Glamoured the Mark because he _was _ashamed, or just out of caution, to avoid getting caught.

Honestly, she decided, it didn't matter. He was one of Voldemort's soldiers for life, regardless of any second thoughts, dedicated to extermination of her kind. She knew now that they now stood on opposite sides of an irrevocable divide.

"Give me a minute and I'll return the favor," Malfoy offered in a languid voice, reclining on the Transfigured mattress.

The sheer teenage normality of it made her want to cry. The boy she was fooling around with wanted to touch her, to make her feel good, when he wasn't occupied committing Godric only knew what crimes for his genocidal master.

"Erm, no, that's okay, Malfoy," Hermione babbled, reaching around to zip up her dress. "Happy Christmas," she added lamely, before racing from the room.

She hoped she looked presentable. Despite the lateness of the hour, she had to wake Professor McGonagall, to warn her that there was a Death Eater in the castle.

**A/N: The dialogue between Harry and Hermione in the library is verbatim from HBP. **


	5. Chapter 5: January 1997

**_January 1997_**

A chill, damp wind swirled down Platform 9 and 3/4, but Draco resolutely refused to shiver. It just wouldn't do to show any weakness in his present company. Instead, he scanned the thinner-than-usual crowd of students waiting to board the Hogwarts Express after the Christmas hols, relieved when he saw no sign of Granger.

"Looking for someone, dearie?" Mrs. Crabbe was a kind, plump woman who always urged Draco to take a third slice of gingerbread whenever he came over to Vince's house for tea. It was disconcerting, to say the least, to see her normally placid blue eyes dancing with malice and madness, but even Polyjuice potion could not disguise his aunt's essential nature.

"Just Zabini," Draco answered shortly, mental shields firmly in place. Bellatrix had used Legilemency on him repeatedly over the break, reviewing his attempts to fix the Vanishing Cabinet and lingering over his interactions with the Golden Trio. His attack on Potter on the train back in September and the couple of times he had pushed Granger around were his aunt's apparent favorites. Through the grace of Nimue, he had been able to block Bellatrix from seeing more recent thoughts of Granger by focusing on those earlier incidents.

"Ickle Harry Potter didn't come out to play," his aunt cooed from Mrs. Crabbe's mouth.

Draco frowned, but for once failed to offer any insult about the Chosen Git. He was not in the mood to make small talk with someone who effectively was his gaoler. There was no need for Voldemort to send four of his most trusted Death Eaters to King's Cross station, disguised as Vince's and Greg's parents, to "protect" the Malfoys. In reality, they were there to keep Draco and his mother from bolting.

"Dumbledore arranged for special Floo access for him and for all the Mudbloods," Rodolphus Lestrange rumbled in his guise as Mr. Crabbe. "Snape said the old bastard called in all his chits with the Floo Network Authority, trying to keep the brats safe a little while longer."

"The blood traitors, too," his brother Rabastan noted. "No Weasleys here." His sharp-eyed stare looked out of place on Goyle, Sr.'s gorilla-like face.

"Looks like the Bones family - what's left of them - also decided not to take the train," Yaxley lisped as Mrs. Goyle. With a hint of his usual snark, Draco wondered if Yaxley had drawn the short straw, or if the Dark Lord had discovered the man's secret love of cross-dressing.

"Draco, you should go. I don't want you to miss the train." His mother, pale as porcelain, was staring at the scarlet steam engine, seemingly indifferent to the Death Eaters' conversation about the lack of prey on the platform.

To a casual observer, she looked haughty and composed as always, but Draco knew her hands were demurely clasped to hide the tell-tale trembling that resulted from exposure to the Cruciatus curse. To incentivize Draco to do a better job repairing the Vanishing Cabinet, mother and son both had been tortured repeatedly over the Christmas holidays. Lucius, freshly returned from Azkaban, had been designated by the Dark Lord as their primary tormentor and had been all too happy to oblige his master.

"Draco, you need to go," his mother reiterated, with more urgency as the Hogwarts Express whistled for stragglers to board.

He nodded, torn between eagerness to escape to the relative safety of Hogwarts and reluctance to abandon his mother to the horrors of their family home. She leaned up to place a cool peck on his cheek, showing the appropriate amount of public affection for a Malfoy. "Have a good term, darling. Your father and I will see you at Easter."

Giving into a sudden impulse, Draco hugged her hard, heedless of his dignity as a Malfoy or the sneering, Polyjuiced Death Eaters who derided him as a weak mummy's boy. She felt brittle and bird-like, and he caught a hint of her floral perfume as he leaned down to bury his head in her neck. As a child, he had sought and received comfort from his mother's embrace countless times; now she needed him to be the strong one.

"It will be alright, Mum. I'll _make_ it so," he promised softly.

She pulled away slightly to look into his eyes. "Take care of _yourself_, my dragon," she whispered, saying as much as she dared.

Draco shook his head once in fierce negation of the idea that he should abandon her and save himself. "I love you, Mum." He hugged her again.

"C'mon, Drake," Goyle urged, holding the train door open.

Reluctantly, he released his fragile mother and boarded the train. As the Hogwarts Express pulled out of the station, his last glimpse of her, surrounded by Death Eaters, was of her black-gloved hand waving in farewell as her pale lips silently mouthed that she loved him, too.

Draco stalked through the half-empty train with Crabbe and Goyle in his wake, searching for an empty compartment. With all of the students who had returned to school by alternate methods, it was easy enough. He was more than a bit disappointed. In his current black mood, he would have loved an excuse to order some hapless Hufflepuffs to move and to hex them if they were so foolish as to refuse.

As soon as the compartment door swung shut behind the three of them, Draco turned around and slammed his fist into the frame as hard as he could. The sting in his knuckles barely registered against the sort of pain he had become accustomed to over the past couple weeks.

"Fuck!" he screamed, releasing all fear and hate he'd bottled up over the holidays.

Greg and Vince eyed him uneasily as he took a few deep breaths to regain control. When he had calmed, Goyle stepped forward, looking uncomfortable, and pulled Draco's hawthorne wand from his cloak pocket.

"Uh, Drake, here you go," Greg muttered. He then looked at the blond boy he had followed from the time he could toddle with begging brown eyes, like a dog hoping not to be kicked. "I didn't want to take it, but yer aunt said I had to."

"It's fine," Draco said shortly, taking the proffered wand and polishing it before replacing it in his own pocket. "It's not as though any of us has a choice," he added bitterly.

Then he settled back into his corner seat and closed his eyes, ignoring Vince and Greg. He had slept poorly at the Manor over break, and would be happy to sleep for the entire ride north. Perhaps he would even have pleasant dreams of Granger doing delightful things to him, rather than terrible nightmares where other Death Eaters were doing awful things to her.

(x) (x) (x)

Hermione sat across from Harry in the Gryffindor common room, her squashy chintz armchair angled so she wouldn't have to see Lavender, freshly arrived on the Hogwarts Express, gyrating on Ron's lap with her tongue shoved down his throat.

"How were your holidays?" Harry asked, having the decency to look embarrassed at Won-won's antics. He had made a token effort to persuade Hermione to reconcile with Ron, but had not pressed in the face of her sharp refusal. She had more important things on her mind, like whether to agree to Professor Dumbledore's request that she spy on Malfoy for the Order of the Phoenix.

If it were just a matter of continuing to meet Malfoy for tutoring, it would be easy, but their study sessions had long since evolved into something else. And Hermione was deeply troubled by the idea of exploiting his attraction to her to obtain information from him, even if he was a Death Eater. She also was doubtful that she could remain that close to him without giving away that she knew he had taken the Dark Mark. She suppressed a shiver at the memory of the cold feel of the brand on his forearm brushing against her bare skin.

She shrugged in response to Harry's question. "My parents and I went skiing in Switzerland. It's not really my thing - going downhill feels too much like flying! - but it was nice to spend time with my mum and dad. How was the Burrow?"

"Brilliant!" Harry enthused, his green eyes inevitably drifting towards where Ginny was seated on the other side of the fire. "Lots of pick-up Quidditch and as much of Mrs. Weasley's cooking as I could eat. I didn't want to Floo back this afternoon!"

"Sounds like fun." Her lips turned down. "I had to take an airplane back to London yesterday and Floo from my parents' house instead of taking a portkey straight from Gstaad. Professor McGonagall said the Portkey Office can't be trusted anymore when it comes to someone of my blood status."

Her favorite professor also had said the same of Malfoy, urging Hermione in the strongest of terms to sever any ties to the youngest Death Eater. Professor McGonagall had sharply disputed the headmaster's suggestion that Hermione continue to meet with Malfoy. Hermione had not told either teacher the truth about how she discovered the Dark Mark on Malfoy's body, but she suspected they knew she hadn't randomly stumbled across him with his shirt off. And while Professor McGonagall wanted her to pull back and stay safe, Dumbledore wished her to get even closer to Malfoy. That sort of exploitation - of both of them - made her very uneasy.

"Blimey," Harry whistled. "That's not good, with the portkeys."

Hermione forced a smile. That was a gross understatement when it came to describing Voldemort's insidious takeover of the Ministry. Arguably, that was all the more reason why she should do her part and keep an eye on Malfoy, whatever it took. "Well, at least I got back early enough to get started on the first week's assignments."

"You're such a swot," Harry grinned. He suddenly turned serious. "I couldn't trust this to Owl Post, but I overheard Snape talking to Malfoy the night of the Slug Club party."

Hermione caught her breath. Her rather _revealing_ rendezvous with Malfoy would have followed on the heels of his conversation with Professor Snape. She could feel herself blushing at the recollection and hoped that Harry attributed her pink cheeks to the heat from the fire.

When Harry finished recounting what he had overheard, Hermione sat in silence for a moment, gathering her thoughts. With that disgusting Mark on Malfoy's arm, there was no doubt that Harry's take was spot on. But Professor Dumbledore had sworn her to silence, enforced by a magical oath. Hermione knew she would have to be very careful in responding to her friend's well-founded suspicions that their blond classmate was a Death Eater.

"But this definitely proves Malfoy's planning something, you can't deny that," Harry prompted in the face of her silence.

"No, I can't," she admitted. Clearly, Malfoy _was_ planning something and she suspected it was much more nefarious than spying on Harry and reporting back to Voldemort. During her meetings with Malfoy, he had always seemed rather disinterested and dismissive of Harry, and especially of Ron, whenever they came up in conversation.

"And he's acting on Voldemort's orders, just like I said!" Harry exclaimed.

"Hmmm . . . did either of them actually mention Voldemort's name?" Really, it was a completely absurd question for her to ask, given that dark lords generally had little tolerance for competition and Grindelwald, the only other living dark lord in the world, was mouldering in prison somewhere in Austria.

"I'm not sure . . . Snape definitely said 'your master,' and who else would that be?" Harry's question was, for once, based in logic rather than emotion.

Hermione bit her lip. "I don't know. Maybe his father?" It was the best she could do in the face of Harry's probing questions. From what Malfoy had revealed in passing, she thought Lucius was a stern parent, bordering on abusive, but it was a filial relationship, not one of master and servant. And really, who was she kidding? Malfoy was a branded slave and Voldemort was his master.

She tried to distract Harry from the topic of Malfoy by asking about Professor Lupin, but all conversational paths seemed to lead back to a certain grey-eyed blond.

"But this proves Malfoy's a Death Eater, how else could he be in contact with Greyback and telling him what to do?" Harry demanded.

Hermione could have slapped herself for sheer stupidity, for reminding Harry of who Greyback was and who that foul werewolf served.

"It is pretty suspicious," she conceded. "Unless . . . " Hermione's voice trailed off, as she was unable to come with any plausible explanation as to why Malfoy would be threatening people with Voldemort's attack dog unless he were a Death Eater himself. Which he _was_, though Dumbledore had made her promise not to tell anyone, but especially Harry.

"Oh, come on! You can't get round this one!" Harry said in exasperation.

"Well . . . there is the possibility it was an empty threat." It sounded lame, even to her own ears.

"You're unbelievable, you are. We'll see who's right." Harry shook his head at her. "You'll be eating your words, Hermione."

Honestly, she hoped she would be. Because in order to eat her words, and admit Harry had been right all along about Malfoy, she and Harry both would have to survive the conflict that inevitably was coming.

(x) (x) (x)

Draco arrived in Arithmancy class just before the bell rang on Monday afternoon and slouched behind a desk in the back row. Granger was in her usual seat, front and center, with her textbook, parchment and quill neatly arranged in front of her. He hid a grin at her earnest preparation for the first day of class and made a mental note to tease her later for being such a little swot.

As the class settled in and Professor Vector inquired about her students' holidays, he focused on Granger - the slim line of her back and delicately squared shoulders, and how her curls acquired any number of vibrant shades of chestnut, bronze and dark gold against the stark black of her uniform robes. As she wrote something on the parchment laid out in front of her, the subtle motion made her curls bounce.

"Attention, class!" Professor Vector clapped her hands and the small group of sixth years fell silent. "This term, in addition to our regular syllabus, you each will be responsible for a research project applying Arithmancy principles to a form of magical transportation." With a flick of her wand, she unveiled a whiteboard with list of nine topics, one for each student in the class.

Draco examined the list. A few of the topics were quite interesting, like Apparition or broomsticks. Others were deadly dull. Who cared about how the laws of Arithmancy applied to magical carpets, when nobody used the dusty old things to get around anymore? Or magical elevators, which so far as he knew were only at the Ministry and St. Mungo's. And magical toilets that flushed a wizard or witch to his or her destination were just plain unsanitary.

"You will choose your topic in order of class rank, based on your marks at the end of last term," Professor Vector stated. "Miss Granger?"

Draco smirked with a vicarious sort of pride. Even in an advanced elective that was chock full of academic Ravenclaws, Granger predictably was at the top of the class. He, on the other hand, probably would be stuck with magical toilets. He frowned at that disgusting thought.

"I would like portkeys, please," she requested.

Draco narrowed his eyes at the back of her curly head in speculation. He wouldn't have expected her to choose broomsticks, given her well-known dislike of flying, but Apparition was the obvious top choice. Every teenage wizard or witch was anxious to get his or her license to Apparate. Indeed, Kevin Entwhistle, still ranked second in the class, had selected Apparition as his topic with alacrity, before Professor Vector even finished saying his name. Unless Granger had heard the rumors that the head of the Portkey Office was one of Voldemort's sympathizers. Was she planning to learn how to _make_ her own portkeys?

His grey eyes widened at a sudden thought, as he realized there was a potential practical application for this research project. Magical elevators were closed compartments that transferred people from one location to another. In principle, they were merely less portable and more permanent versions of the Vanishing Cabinet. He _had_ to get that topic, and tensed at the idea that one of the 'Claws might choose it first. But Terry Boot opted for broomsticks and Mandy Brocklehurst took the Floo Network, and then Professsor Vector called his name.

"Mr. Malfoy?" the teacher repeated, with a touch of impatience.

"Er, magical elevators," he blurted, surprised that his class rank was so high after failing the first month. Granger's tutoring really had paid off.

"Thank you," he added. The professor nodded and wrote his name next to his selection before moving on the next student.

Granger turned halfway around in her seat and gave him a curious look. Draco caught her eye and smirked as she flushed. When the Hogwarts Express had arrived late yesterday afternoon, she had been safely ensconced in Gryffindor tower. He had not spoken with her since the night of the Slug Club party, and had not seen her except for glimpses across the Great Hall at breakfast and lunch. He would be sure to remedy that right after class.

With that resolution, Arithmancy seemed to drag by more slowly than ever, but it eventually ended. Draco grabbed his textbook and stuffed it into his satchel as he hurried out the door, wanting to waylay Granger in the corridor instead of conducting a conversation under Professor Vector's watchful eye. Granger took her sweet time gathering her things, but eventually left the classroom, glancing in both directions.

"Looking for me?" Draco inquired conversationally, falling into step beside her.

"Hi, Malfoy," she said, without raising her eyes. "I'm actually running a bit late for Herbology."

"I'm on my way back to the dungeons, so I'll walk with you," Draco offered. Without waiting for any affirmative response, he grabbed her bookbag and slung it over his shoulder.

"Salazar's staff, Granger! Are you hauling rocks around?" he asked.

"Just books," she muttered.

"Half the library, at a guess. Your bag weighs as much as you," Draco joked. She seemed a bit skittish, and he wanted to put her at ease. It hadn't escaped his notice that she had left him rather abruptly on the night of Sluggy's party. Given how innocent his little Gryffindor was, Draco supposed he shouldn't be surprised that things between them were a touch awkward at the moment. Still, he knew just how to overcome that awkwardness.

With a tap of his wand, her bag disappeared. Granger gasped in outrage. "Malfoy! What did you do to my books? And my bag?"

"Don't get your knickers in a twist," he laughed. "I'm still carrying them. I just used a Disillusionment Charm. I can't have you ruining my reputation, after all!" He winked and felt gratified when she smiled back. _Score one for Draco_, he thought.

Granger peered at his shoulder as they walked down the hallway, trying to discern her bag. "You did that really well," she said in admiration.

"Just something I picked up over the summer," he bragged casually. All part of a Death Eater's bag of tricks, and this was one of the most harmless ones.

"So, why'd you choose elevators? I thought for sure you'd go for magical cars." Granger looked up with big, brown eyes, and he couldn't help but smile at how cute she was as he answered.

"My parents have talked about getting one installed in the Manor," he said, the lie ready on his tongue.

"Oh," she said, nibbling her lip as she processed his answer. "How was your break?"

With an effort, he kept his face neutral and his tone light. "A bit boring. I was just at home in Wiltshire with my mother." He omitted that he spent much of that time being tortured in the dining room, or interrogated and mentally violated by his mad aunt. "How about you?"

Granger's bright-eyed explanation of skiing occupied them until they reached the doors leading out to the greenhouses. Draco tried not to look too incredulous at the absurd notion of Muggles sliding down snowy hills with boards strapped to their feet, but it was hard not to laugh.

He tapped Granger's bag and handed it back to her when it reappeared. Draco propped himself against the stone wall with one arm, partially hemming Granger in. "I'd like to see you tonight. Are you free?"

"Um, not tonight, Malfoy. I have to meet with Professor McGonagall about my prefect duties. I'll Owl you tomorrow with my schedule, okay?"

"Sure," Draco agreed, concealing his disappointment that he had not been able to persuade her to an earlier meeting. He hoped she wouldn't make him wait until Thursday to enjoy the sensation of her warm, supple body pressed up against his or the delightful taste of her kisses. Glancing up and down the deserted corridor, he realized there was no reason to wait.

"I missed you," he murmured. A small step forward, a quick bend of his head and neck, and his lips were on hers.

For a moment, he felt something close to resistance. Granger was standing stiffly, mouth compressed. Before he could pull away and ask what her problem was, since Merlin knew he had exercised rather remarkable self-restraint to refrain from pushing her into anything she wasn't ready for, she relaxed into the kiss. Soft lips parted under his and he could feel her curves molded against him. With utmost reluctance, he released her before anyone could turn the corner and get an eyeful of them snogging.

"See you soon, Granger. Don't let the Devil's Snare get into that thicket you call hair." He tugged one of her curls for emphasis and sauntered off to the dungeons with a grin on his face, not needing to look back to confirm that she was standing there in a daze.

(x) (x) (x)

Very early on Tuesday morning, Hermione climbed the twisty, cold stone stairs leading to the Owlery. In her hand, she held a rolled sheet of parchment, composed over a laborious two hours in the wee hours of the night when she had woken and couldn't get back to sleep. It had been hard - so much harder than she had ever anticipated - to reach and stick to her decision in regards to Malfoy.

All evening, she had been unable to stop replaying their conversation after Arithmancy class. Or, to be strictly honest, their kiss outside the Herbology classroom. She had initially panicked at the thought of being kissed by a Death Eater, but another part of her brain had reveled in his familiar scent and taste and how his body felt wrapped around hers. Hermione did not want to dwell on what Amorentia would smell like to her now, were she to sniff it today.

She pursed her lips and whistled softly, rattling a tin of owl treats for good measure. The school owls were notoriously surly and lazy, but she thought this would be enough incentive to get at least one owl to descend from its perch and deliver her letter.

Three fluttered down in response to her summons: a barn owl, a tawny and - her eyes widened in surprise and a tiny bit of alarm - a majestic eagle owl, wearing a bejeweled collar instead of Hogwarts-issued leather. The last owl hissed and mantled its wings at the other two until they veered off and returned to their perches.

Malfoy's owl landed gracefully on the stone windowsill and swiveled his head in her direction, hooting in greeting. Hermione nearly dropped the scroll in surprise. "Hi, Purus," she squeaked.

She recognized the owl from his many deliveries to the Slytherin table and occasional deliveries to her, and Malfoy often mentioned his familiar by name, always with a casual sort of pride and affection. And that was why she knew that the eagle owl would only take deliveries from a member of the Malfoy family. Unless Purus could _read_? And therefore knew her letter was addressed to his master?

"It's just a short delivery," she said, unaccountably nervous at the owl's proximity. "Really not worth your while. It is for Malfoy, though. Draco, I mean. Not Lucius or Narcissa," she babbled.

Purus butted his feathery head against her hand, almost like Crookshanks seeking a pat. She obliged him, as he stretched out a taloned foot to snatch the scroll. Clearly, he intended to deliver it.

"Shall I tie it round your leg?" Hermione asked the bird, taking his small hop as an affirmative. When she was finished, he butted up against her hand in a friendly fashion once more and took off for his perch.

She released a deep sigh as she left the Owlery. What was done, was done.

(x) (x) (x)

Draco was at his usual seat at the Slytherin table - the one that gave him the best vantage point to sneer at Potter while watching Granger out of the corner of his eye - tucking into bacon and eggs with more of an appetite than usual.

He had run into his favorite Gryffindor on the way into the Great Hall with Blaise and favored her with his thoughts on her hair. "You look like you just tumbled out of bed, Granger! Do something to tame that owl's nest!" He had a very pretty barrette to give her the next time they were alone, a belated Yule present, but he figured there was no harm in setting the stage.

She had flushed a brilliant, satisfying red and he had chuckled at her discomfiture. Then Zabini's innuendo made it better, or worse, depending on one's perspective. "Drake," he smirked, "how do you know what Granger looks like when she's just tumbled out of bed? Or did you mean she looks like she's just been tumbled on a bed?"

Granger ignored them, but that comment had Potty and the Weasel both lunging in their direction, restrained only by Professor McGonagall's arrival on the scene and the removal of five points from Gryffindor. The Scottish hag had given Draco a look of deepest loathing and suspicion, but - unlike Professor Snape - she was too rigidly fair not to take points from her own house when her hot-tempered, incompetent lions were caught red-handed.

Draco still was smiling, both at the pre-breakfast confrontation with the Golden Trio and a fantasy of what Granger's hair would look like in its just-shagged glory, when Purus landed on the table. His well-trained owl carefully avoided any students' plates or goblets as he extended a leg to his master. Draco untied the attached scroll and commenced scratching the owl's neck feathers with one hand while unrolling the parchment with the other.

The handwriting was neat and feminine; the message was polite but implacable.

_Malfoy,_

_Professor Vector advises me that your mark in Arithmancy has returned to a solid pass. Congratulations. I am pleased that your diligence has paid off and you no longer require tutoring. _

_Sincerely, _

_H. Granger_

Across the hall, Granger was staring fixedly at the table, refusing to meet his gaze. He crumpled the parchment and looked blankly down at his plate, appetite gone and wondering what he had done wrong.

**A/N: the quoted dialogue between Harry and Hermione where he is trying to convince her Malfoy is a Death Eater is taken verbatim from HBP. For such a smart girl, Hermione seems shockingly obtuse in that conversation. I like my explanation of events better!**


	6. Chapter 6: February 1997

**_February 1997_**

Cold January gave way to bleak February, and Draco's life fell into a pattern, divided between the hours he spent in the Room of Requirement with the Vanishing Cabinet and normal student life.

Selecting magical elevators for his independent research project in Arithmancy had been a stroke of genius, worthy of Granger herself. Late in January, he had made enough of a breakthrough with the physical repairs that the linked cabinets could now reliably transfer inorganic objects between Hogwarts and Borgin and Burke's. Organic objects tended to wind up scrambled or missing large chunks, however.

Still, it was enough tangible progress that Professor Snape had been able to persuade the Dark Lord that his lesson over the Christmas holidays had sunk in and there was no further need for Narcissa to be tortured on a semi-regular basis. Draco was relieved, to put it mildly, but knew this was at most a brief respite. The Dark Lord was a hard taskmaster, one who demanded results.

So, once again, Draco found himself trudging to the seventh floor and the hateful tapestry of trolls in tutus, even though it was a Friday evening and early enough in the term that not even Granger was revising yet. He thought longingly of the Slytherin common room, and how fun it would be to hang out with Blaise, Greg and Vince - and even Pansy, now that she was dating a seventh year and had stopped draping herself around his neck and calling him Drakey. But the Dark Lord did not care about anything so petty as friendship.

"What are you doing up here?" An unwelcome voice challenged him from behind.

Draco turned around slowly, mentally counting to five to restrain his temper. The Chosen Git had that effect on him.

"I'm heading up to the Astronomy Tower to look at the stars, Potter, not that it's any of your business." He was intrigued to see the Gryffindor store a carefully folded parchment in his pocket. Potter seemed much more like the sloppy type to crumple and stuff.

The dark-haired boy strolled closer, looking suspicious. "That's bollocks, Malfoy. On a Friday night, no one ever goes there except to snog."

_Or shag_, Draco mentally amended, not that the virginal Saint Potter ever would be found with his pants down. "Please tell me that's not a proposition, Potty," he sneered. "I may have to withdraw and transfer to Durmstrang if it is."

"Ugh, no," Potter said in disgust.

"Er, hi, Draco," Goyle stammered in a squeaky soprano, due to his current Polyjuiced guise as a second-year Slytherin girl. "Sorry I'm late. I was in the Dining Hall . . . "

He trailed off at a gesture from Draco. Or perhaps Greg, who was never quick on the uptake, finally had noticed Potter.

"Isn't she a bit young for you?" the Gryffindor sneered.

Draco rolled his eyes. "She's quite old enough to carry my star chart, astrolabe and sextant. That's all she's here for." And, of course, to stand guard outside the Room of Requirement and drop everything - literally - to warn him if someone came by. "Now bugger off, Pothead. People might get the wrong idea if you insist on accompanying me to the Astronomy Tower so we can admire the night sky together."

As Draco had hoped, that was enough to get Potter to scarper, leaving him to work on the Vanishing Cabinet in relative peace.

The next weeks, however, featured more of the same. Draco felt as though every time he turned around, Potter was there, with his damnable scrap of parchment. The Scarred One followed him from the Great Hall after mealtimes, tailed him after every class they shared, and even left the comfort of his Gryffindor pack to eavesdrop on Draco and his mates during the Ministry-sponsored Apparition training.

Having dated Pansy off and on for more than a year, Draco was not entirely unused to having a stalker. And at least, he thought sourly, there was no chance of Scarhead sneaking into the Slytherin boys' dormitory to "surprise" him in bed wearing an emerald green teddy.

Draco supposed he might have tolerated Potter's inept attempts to spy on him with better grace if the Scarred One had enlisted the assistance of his female best friend. But Granger, with the exception of that single kiss, had been assiduously avoiding Draco since the start of term. It wasn't anything so obvious as silent treatment or a snit, two female behaviors he was familiar with. She would speak with him civilly enough, might even walk the halls or study with him in the library with a group, but she was careful not to be caught anywhere alone with him. Granger was treating him like a generic Ravenclaw boy, and it was driving him mad.

Potions with Slughorn this morning had started off with more of the same. She acknowledged his nod and exchanged a few polite words about the weather when they were fetching ingredients. When the supply closet emptied of other students, however, Granger quickly maneuvered around him before Draco could do more than open his mouth to ask what was going on.

He narrowed his eyes at her curly head as she took her seat next to the smarter Patil girl. Granger diligently kept her head down, seeming to concentrate on her antidote, but Draco knew that he - and not her steaming cauldron - had caused the flush on her cheeks. He shook his head slightly and vowed to employ all of his cunning to figure out her odd behavior.

Draco bent his attention to his notes on Golpalott's Third Law and its application to mixed poisons. This was a favorite area of study for his godfather and presented a golden opportunity for Draco to impress Granger with his aptitude for Potions and yank Slughorn's attention off Potter.

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco could see Granger in action, stirring her cauldron left-handed as she performed some sort of complicated Arithmancy calculation with the quill in her right hand. Over the course of the class, she made three additional trips to the supply cupboard for a dizzying array of ingredients. Draco left his cauldron in Blaise's charge to assist her on one of those trips, chivalrously retrieving a dusty bottle from the topmost shelf.

Potter, he was happy to see, had reverted to his usual gormless state, randomly throwing ingredients into the sludge in his cauldron and occasionally mouthing Golpalott's Third Law to himself with a look of confusion.

"Two minutes left, everyone!" Slughorn clapped his hands to announce brewing was ending for the day. Draco was reasonably satisfied with the state of his potion. It was the best textbook antidote in the class, and neck-and-neck with Granger's more creative potion. Even Sluggy gave him a grudging, "Well done, m'boy," as he inspected it.

Draco waited expectantly for the professor to rate Potter's smelly sludge as a failure. At the two-minute warning, the Four-Eyed Wonder had dashed off into the storage cupboard. After a few minutes of determined and audible rummaging, Potter emerged with an object clenched in his hand, which he presented to Sluggy with an expectant air.

After a pregnant pause, the Potions professor roared with laughter. "Well, I can't fault you . . . . A bezoar would certainly act as an antidote to all these potions! . . . Ten points to Gryffindor for sheer cheek!"

Draco clenched his teeth in anger as Slugborn blathered on about Potter's mother. From across the room, Granger's eyes met his in a look of commiseration and shared disgust at Scarhead's trick with the bezoar. As annoyed as he was with Slughorn's blatant favoritism - Draco _never_ would have dared to try that trick with Professor Snape - he couldn't help but smile that he and Granger seemed to be communicating once again.

After class, Draco was inspired to write her a quick note:

_Granger, now that you've bought me up to scratch in Arithmancy (and I am quite grateful for that - thank you again), what do you say to pooling our intellectual resources in Potions, so that one of us can regain the top spot from that undeserving plonker Potter?_

_Regards,_

_DM_

He regarded the missive with satisfaction. Potter's obnoxiousness had provided him with an opening and Draco, like the cunning snake he was, now would utilize it to slither back into Granger's good graces.

(x) (x) (x)

"Why is that bloody owl here again?" Ron moaned, as Purus landed on the Gryffindor table the following morning, blocking his path to the sausages. "I thought you were done with tutoring Malfoy, 'Mione."

"We _are_ finished, Ron," she said with a dull sort of finality as she removed the scroll from the owl's foot, absently scratching the plumage at his neck.

"Why is he still writing to you, then?" Harry asked from across the table. "Malfoy's _looking_ at you." He glared across the Great Hall at the Slytherin table.

Hermione resisted the temptation to turn around. "There's no harm in looking." She read the note and passed it to Harry before he could grab it, hoping to allay suspicion. "He's asking for help with potions."

An expression of surprise, followed by annoyance, crossed Harry's face as he read the note. "No, he isn't," Harry disagreed. "He wants to study with you. He's writes like you're friends or something."

_Or something_, Hermione thought to herself. Out loud, she said, "It's Malfoy. He's even more of an arrogant git than the average teenage boy. This is his way of asking for help."

Harry had passed the note to Ron, who looked doubtful. "I dunno, 'Mione. I think Harry's right. Malfoy even _thanks_ you. And he didn't use the 'M' word. Not even once."

"Yes, Ronald, because he wants something from me. Malfoy is intelligent enough to know that calling me a Mudblood is a poor way to go about getting it," Hermione explained through gritted teeth.

Then Lavender chimed in with a giggle. "But what exactly does he want from you? If you were anyone else, I'd say Draco was asking you on a study date."

"No way!" Ron said, revolted. "Careful, Lav, or you'll put me off my breakfast."

"As if," Hermione sniped, irritated at both of them and their easy certainty that Malfoy could not possibly have any interest in someone like her, other than as a walking encyclopedia.

"Maybe you should agree," Harry suggested, a nervous look in his bright green eyes.

"I beg your pardon?" Hermione asked, certain she had misheard. Or at least misunderstood what Harry wanted her to agree to.

"Maybe you should agree to study with Malfoy," Harry clarified, looking as though he had just tasted a vomit-flavored Bertie Bott's Bean. "I overheard him arguing with Crabbe about something taking longer than Malfoy expected and Crabbe and Goyle keeping a lookout. Maybe you can find out what he's up to."

"Harry James Potter," she hissed under her breath, wary of Lavender's tendency to gossip, "after spending the entire school year telling me that Malfoy is a dangerous Death Eater, now you want me to _consort_ with him?" Hermione couldn't help feeling a bit betrayed. First Dumbledore, now Harry, wanting her to use her feminine wiles - such as they were - to get close to Malfoy.

"Not consort with him," Harry protested. "Ugh, no. Just hang around him a bit, let him brag. You remember from second year - he loves to boast. And there are times he just disappears off the Marauders' map, so maybe you could find out where he's going."

Hermione relaxed a bit at Harry's protest. She had been appalled when she realized what Dumbledore wanted her to do, all in service of his notion of the greater good. The headmaster's casual comment to Professor McGonagall that Hermione was of age for that type of "mission" still angered her. Apparently, she was too young to become a full-fledged member of the Order of the Phoenix, but quite old enough to seduce a Death Eater. Thankfully, Harry did not think of her as a tool to be used that way.

"No, I don't remember," Hermione said dryly, since she had turned herself into a cat instead of a snake and had never had the privilege of visiting Malfoy in the Slytherin common room, "but I have heard the story from you and Ron." _Ad nauseam_, she added mentally.

Harry looked thoughtful. "If you don't want to go back to studying with the Ferret, maybe we could brew Polyjuice potion again."

Hermione considered it for a moment. There was no "we" about it, but it would be a much easier task for her to accomplish as a sixth year, especially with Slughorn's lax management of his Potions ingredients. Polyjuice also would allow her to keep a safe distance from Malfoy, which is what she knew she ought to do.

As she was on the verge of agreeing to Harry's Polyjuice plan, a horrible thought occurred to her. She hoped Malfoy was enough of a gentlemen to not brag about his sexual conquests, and enough of a teenage boy to shy away from confiding girl troubles to his friends, but she couldn't be certain. And if he were to unwittingly say anything about her to a Polyjuiced Harry and Ron, Merlin help them all. Hermione might be a brave Gryffindor, but she wasn't reckless enough to court that kind of risk.

"It takes at least a month to brew. It would be a lot faster if I just agree to study with him," Hermione offered.

"You're absolutely right, 'Mione. Thanks for helping me keep tabs on Malfoy." Harry beamed at her, a gleam in her eye making her wonder if she had just been played by her the Boy Who Lived. The Sorting Hat had almost put him in Slytherin, after all.

(x) (x) (x)

"You know this will work exactly once and then we'll both be _persona non grata_ with Granger, right?" Blaise demanded, as they walked from their common room to Professor Vector's class.

"It will work," Draco said, with mostly feigned confidence. "All I need is a few minutes alone with her."

"A few minutes?" Blaise snorted derisively. "Merlin only knows how _you_ got a reputation as the Slytherin sex god with that kind of stamina."

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Zabini," Draco snapped. "I need to speak with her. That's it."

"Right-o," Blaise drawled with slow skepticism. "You've had me cultivate an acquaintance with Granger for more than a month just so you can chat her up?"

"I've had you cultivate an acquaintance with Granger for more than a month so that she will trust you enough to get her alone," Draco explained. "Without Tweedledum and Tweedledumber, or the Weaselette, or any of the Ravenclaw nerds."

Blaise examined him with a sharp expression in his indigo eyes. "Last term, she was alone with you at least twice each week, with no need for any intervention on my part. What happened?"

"I buggered it up somehow, and she won't even tell me what I did!" Draco exclaimed in frustration.

His friend's gaze dropped briefly to his left forearm. "Do you think she knows?"

Draco shook his head. "Impossible. I always kept it glamoured when we met." Glamour charms were like shield charms - once set, they remained in place until removed or broken by a more powerful witch or wizard. "And I'm here, aren't I, not in Azkaban?"

Blaise could not argue with that, so instead gave a theatrical sigh. "Alright, I'll lure Granger to your side. You owe me, though. Even more than usual."

(x) (x) (x)

Hermione had meant to speak to Malfoy after Arithmancy about studying together, but Blaise buttonholed her as soon as the class ended. The blond Slytherin slipped out the door before she could catch his attention.

The tall, dark and handsome Slytherin accompanied her through the fourth-floor corridors, cheerfully complaining about his marks. "I mean, it's not like my mother cares if I'm at the bottom of the class, or even really knows what Arithmancy is, but being stuck with magical toilets for an assignment? That's just wrong!"

Hermione had to laugh at the comical expression on Blaise's normally haughty face. He waggled his eyebrows and went on. "Now, I know you helped Malfoy tremendously, to the point where his Arithmancy grade is now a respectable one, and I'm hoping you perhaps can do the same for me."

She tensed slightly. Blaise was just trying to flatter her, she knew, but it didn't help that they now were outside the classroom where she used to meet with Malfoy.

"Ladies first," Blaise gestured politely.

As Hermione stepped into the classroom, she saw Malfoy seated on a desk, waiting for them.

"What's going on?" she whirled around to ask Blaise, wand loose in her hand.

His wand was out, too, already in a dueling position. "_Expelliarmus_," he said quietly, but still with enough underlying force to take her wand and knock her backwards.

Malfoy caught her as she stumbled. "Thanks, Blaise."

"Anytime, bro," he said casually. The dark boy caught her eye. "Granger, your wand will be waiting for you in Gryffindor tower. I'll find another lion and tell them you forgot it in Professor Vector's classroom. _Capisce_?"

She gave him a curt nod, acutely aware of Malfoy's familiar scent and his arms wrapped loosely around her. Equally, she was aware that she had just been outwitted by the two Slytherin boys. With a cheery wave, Blaise took himself out of the classroom, casting locking and silencing charms as he left.

Hermione turned on Malfoy in a rage, her finger poking at his chest. "What's the meaning of this, Ferret? Getting Blaise to pour on the charm because you knew I wouldn't meet you on my own!"

His eyes flashed at the insult, but his reply was cool. "Consider this a learning experience, Granger. Never trust a snake, especially when he's being charming."

"Thanks for the lesson, Malfoy. I've learnt it well enough already with you," she shot back.

"But here you are, nonetheless," he said logically.

"Not for long," Hermione told him, walking towards the door. "Unlock it, if you will."

"Not just yet," Malfoy shook his bright blond head. "I want to know why you've been avoiding me all term. You didn't even respond to my note about Potions, and I know you have sufficient manners to write a polite refusal."

"Owl post isn't delivered until the morning," Hermione rolled her eyes at him. "I _was_ going to tell you yes, but now I've changed my mind."

She was pleased to see Malfoy looking temporarily nonplussed, but he recovered quickly. "I still would like to know why I've been getting the cold shoulder from you since term began," he persisted.

"We're not compatible," she said, with a bluntness that would have made Godric Gryffindor proud.

"Opposites attract," Malfoy shrugged it off. "And we are extremely compatible in certain ways."

She flushed, knowing what he meant and that Malfoy - damn him - was correct about that.

"Sex isn't everything," she said primly, knowing that was a blatant lie where a sixteen-year-old boy was concerned.

"Don't knock it 'til you've tried it, princess," he smirked, with vintage Malfoy cockiness. Then he grew serious. "That's not what I meant. Or at least not everything I meant. Intelligence, ambition, loyalty to those who matter to us, contempt towards those who don't - we are very much alike in those respects."

She closed her eyes and swallowed hard against the traitorous lump in her throat, wishing she didn't have to hear - or agree with - his words. Hermione knew that she was so susceptible to Malfoy because they were more alike than different in those fundamental ways.

"Honestly, Granger, if it weren't for your blood status, my father would be banging at your parents' door with a betrothal contract in hand," Malfoy continued in a light tone, trying to tease her out of a bad mood. He knew her views on what she referred to as archaic, chauvinist pureblood customs. "Be thankful you're spared that fate."

That snapped her eyes open. "But my blood status is why we're incompatible." Involuntarily, her eyes flicked to his left arm.

Malfoy caught her in the act, and his grey eyes widened in a sudden panic before they hardened.

"I'm so sorry," he said, raising his wand and looking directly at her. Hermione braced herself for an Unforgivable, trying to stay brave to the end. "_Legilimens_."

It felt like a cat prowling through her mind, she thought abstractedly. The mental intrusion did not hurt, but it still was awful to have Malfoy privy to her innermost thoughts, including about him. Hermione wanted to push him out of her mind, or even just physically push him away, but she did not know Occlumency and his spell held her motionless. Hermione felt like a pinned butterfly, trapped and waiting for examination.

Unerringly, Malfoy rifled through her thoughts to find her memories on the night of the Slug Club party. She winced as he saw her disheveled self knocking on Professor McGonagall's door, stammering over an explanation as to how she had discovered his Dark Mark. She felt even worse as Malfoy watched her debriefing in the Headmaster's office. She could feel Malfoy's shock that Dumbledore already knew he was a Death Eater, as well as his revulsion at Dumbledore's suggestion that she should continue to be "Draco's very close friend."

"Dirty old man," Malfoy muttered to himself. "My father's right - he has lost the plot."

Then he was back in her mind, coldly reviewing the earlier events of that evening to her abject humiliation.

"Nice technique for a beginner," he sneered. "Was that your plan to distract me all along?" Malfoy asked bitterly. "I'm surprised you didn't agree to whore yourself out at Dumbledore's request."

Hermione wanted to tell him no, to scream her denial in his face, but the spell held her silent and Malfoy already was searching for the answer with his Legilimency. She could feel him softening as he found what he was looking for, even though his voice still was sharp with sarcasm. "Oh, it seems you really liked me. You really, _really_ liked me."

Hermione _really_ wished she could slap that smug expression off his face. She had always been careful to hide just how attractive she found him, so Malfoy was practically preening now over her private thoughts and fantasies about him. _Don't be such an egotistical prat_, she thought at him.

He withdrew from her mind, looking at her with assessing eyes. "You could tell what I was thinking?"

"Not your thoughts," she shook her head. "Just your feelings.

"How typically Gryffindor," he sneered, but Hermione had a sense that he secretly was impressed.

Malfoy paced around the classroom, wand in hand, talking to himself. "So Dumbledore knows I took the Mark, but he hasn't told the Aurors. And he swore you and McGonagall to silence. Merlin, no wonder that old tabby looks like she wants to claw my eyes out every time she sees me!"

"Why do you think he hasn't told anyone?" Malfoy asked her, grey eyes intent.

"You're still one of his students. I think he's concerned for you," Hermione suggested.

He gave a cynical laugh. "I think it's more that Dumbledore prefers the spy that he knows. Speaking of which, were you really going to agree to study with me again?"

At her nod, he looked intrigued. "And why is that, pet? Clearly, you weren't prepared to agree to Dumbledore's proposition."

"No, that's just wrong. I couldn't do that," she said. Malfoy was watching her closely, toying with his wand as he waited for an answer. Hermione saw no point in lying - he could get into her head and find out whatever he wanted. "Harry asked me to study with you," she admitted. "He wants me to keep an eye on you."

"Alright, then," Malfoy shrugged. "Do Sunday mornings and Thursday afternoons still work for you this term?"

"What?" she asked, startled. "I just told you I was going to spy on you for Harry."

"Better the spy you know," he reiterated. "Besides, you're a lot more attractive than Potty. And if you refuse, he'll keep stalking me or - Merlin forbid - get the Weasel to help."

"I don't think it's a good idea," Hermione shook her head in refusal.

"I don't see why not," Malfoy said casually. "We both benefitted from studying together last term, and nothing's changed."

"How can you say that? Everything's changed!" she glared at his arm.

"My Mark?" he queried, infuriatingly calm. "I've had it since July."

"Well, I didn't know that!" Hermione cried.

"And now you do," Malfoy said with a touch of impatience. "And you've known since right before the Christmas hols. You knew it in January, on the first day of class." He left unspoken that she still had let him snog her up against a wall outside the Herbology classroom.

"My grade in Potions is higher than yours. I fail to see what I get out of this arrangement," Hermione sniffed.

"I can offer some fringe benefits that go beyond the strictly academic," Malfoy grinned, confident that he would come out ahead now that she seemed willing to bargain.

Hermione gave him a quelling look. "You're not that irresistible," she informed him. "If I agree to meet with you, it's just for studying, nothing else."

"So long as you insist," Malfoy said. "I was offering to teach you Occlumency, by the way, not to snog you senseless."

"Oh," was all she could muster, not very intelligently.

"Your mind is like an open book," Malfoy continued critically, "which could be very dangerous for the both of us."

"I really don't like having you in my head," Hermione objected.

"So take me up on my offer and learn how to keep me out." Malfoy examined his fingernails, apparently indifferent to her decision.

She bit her lip in consideration. Harry had never been able master Occlumency, or even properly explain how it was supposed to work. There was no chance of Snape offering her private lessons, and if Dumbledore was too busy to teach Harry, he certainly wouldn't have time for her.

"Can we agree in advance that you'll only look for certain things, things that I say are okay?"

"Sure," Malfoy readily agreed. "Though sometimes I can't help seeing other things, depending on how your thoughts skip around. I'm not _that_ good at Legilimency."

"But you're pretty good," she stated. Malfoy merely nodded in confirmation.

"Okay, deal," Hermione said, holding out her hand to shake.

He took it without hesitation, shook it once, and then surprised her by kissing the back of her hand. Malfoy smiled, pure mischief dancing in his eyes. "Deal."


	7. Chapter 7: March 1997

**_March 1997_**

Hermione had spent all of Saturday waiting outside the hospital wing. Now that Madam Pomfrey had declared Ron stable enough for visitors, she was clinging to his hand and feeling increasingly wretched. Hermione could only be thankful that Professor Slughorn kept a bezoar in his chambers and Harry had the presence of mind to use it, otherwise Ron would be dead.

Ron still was one of her oldest and best friends, despite his execrable table manners and adolescent fascination with Lavender Brown's breasts, and the thought of how close he had come to being gone from her life forever made Hermione's throat tighten. Or maybe that uncomfortable feeling was guilt that she was almost certain who had poisoned Ron, but was keeping her silence, at least until she could speak with Malfoy.

Harry had given her a few odd looks during their vigil outside the infirmary, and she thought he had noticed that she was being unusually quiet. The ongoing and increasingly off-base speculation by Harry, Ginny and the Weasley twins as to who might have had a reason to poison Ron or Slughorn put an increasing strain on her self-control. When one of the twins surmised the would-be killer might be someone with a grudge against the Gryffindor Quidditch team, Hermione finally snapped.

"Well, I don't think it's Quidditch, but I think there's a connection between the attacks," she spoke up, in a quiet voice.

"How d'you work that out?" asked Fred, serious for once.

"Well, for one thing, they both ought to have been fatal and weren't, although that was pure luck," she said, thinking it was lucky for Malfoy and his victims that no one had been fatally injured. That was the sop to her conscience, the reason why she could justify to herself warning him off rather than turning him in. He would have to leave Hogwarts, of course, but maybe he could stay out of Azkaban.

Harry was watching her again, his emerald eyes disconcertingly intent. She chose her next words carefully, because he was capable of dangerous flashes of intuition and already predisposed to suspect Malfoy even in the rare cases where the blond Slytherin was entirely innocent.

"And for another, neither the poison nor the necklace seems to have reached the person who was supposed to be killed. Of course," Hermione added broodingly, "that makes the person behind this even more dangerous in a way, because they don't seem to care how many people they finish off before they actually reach their victim."

And wasn't that a terrible thought to have about someone who had become - despite the long odds against it - a sort of friend. A snarky, sarcastic, prickly and devilishly attractive sort of friend, but certainly no longer her enemy. Hermione could only be thankful that she had resisted temptation and kept her hands and lips off Malfoy during their study sessions this term. That would have made confronting him an even harder task, and Merlin knew it would already take every bit of her Gryffindor courage.

On his hospital bed, Ron tossed restlessly, his ginger hair in stark contrast to the white pillow. Madam Pomfrey had warned them a fever was to be expected as the remaining poison leached from Ron's body, so Hermione wasn't too concerned when she took his hand and found it hot and dry.

"Is that you, 'Mione?" he muttered thickly.

"It's me, Ron," she replied, so happy to hear his voice that she didn't even mind the stupid nickname he'd given her.

"Don't go, okay?" he asked. "Wanna have you here."

"I'll stay until Madam Pomfrey kicks me out," she promised.

"We all will," Harry vowed, his face set in determined lines following the attack on his best mate. The twins and Ginny echoed their agreement. Looking at their grim faces, Hermione swallowed down her guilt once more, trying to remember how she had come to have so many secrets from her closest friends.

(x) (x) (x)

Draco was staring out the window of their fourth-floor classroom, watching the pallid sunlight illuminate the distant ridges and peaks. It was nice to see the sun and feel anticipation instead of dread for a change, even for something so minor as breakfast and studying with Granger.

At the sound of her quick footsteps in the corridor, he schooled the undignified grin on his face into a cool neutrality. "Granger," he said by way of welcome, turning from the window to greet her.

He was caught off guard when she shoved him back into the stone wall, hard enough to drive the breath from his lungs, and dug her wand into the soft underside of his neck.

"Why did you try to kill Ron?" she snarled, her hair practically crackling with her magic and her eyes golden in rage.

Draco's eyes widened in genuine surprise. Rumors were all over the castle that the Weasel King was in the infirmary after taking a badly-brewed love potion, but _he_ had nothing to do with that and told her as much.

"Granger, are you mental? Why in Salazar's name would I want to poison Weaselbee?"

The patent sincerity of his response calmed her down, just a bit. Now he would classify her as merely furious rather than in the sort of rage where she might actually harm him.

"You would do it if Voldemort ordered you to," she hissed.

"Well, of course I would," Draco admitted with candid selfishness, repressing a twitch at the casual use of his master's name. "I value my skin over the Weasel King's any day of the week. But the Dark Lord is too focused on Potter to concern himself with sidekicks." He drew a deep breath, bracing himself for a hex. "Besides, if I wanted to hamstring Potter, I would go after you, not the gormless blood traitor."

Granger seemed partially disarmed and perversely flattered by his honesty, but she hadn't removed her wand from his throat. "Ron wasn't the target, Malfoy. The poison was in a cask of mead in Professor Slughorn's chambers."

"Come off it, Granger. I'm not that fussed about being blackballed from the Slug Club," Draco said with a casualness he was far from feeling. Madam Rosmerta had doctored a cask of mead meant for Dumbledore on his orders. It seemed like the gossip about Weasel's illness was not entirely accurate. Still, Draco didn't betray himself, not by so much as a flicker of an eyelash.

"I think Professor Dumbledore was the target," Granger said, brown eyes boring into his own.

"That would make more sense," he agreed, maintaining eye contact. "But giving something to Sluggy in hopes that he'd pass it along to Dumbledore strikes me as a daft plan."

Granger narrowed her eyes in thought, unable to deny the truth of that observation.

"If I wanted to kill the headmaster," Draco continued, "I would poison those nasty lemon candies he's always sucking on. Or I would slip something into the bottle of FireWhiskey McGonagall keeps in her office, because everyone knows she always gives him a dram when they play chess on Friday nights."

But as Merlin only knew, Draco didn't _really_ want to kill Dumbledore, and therefore had rejected both of those plans. He hadn't been too worried about accidentally poisoning Slughorn, either. The potions master was a noted epicurean, who would have noticed something was off with his first delicate sip of the mead. Trust a barbarian like Weasley to nearly kill himself by swigging premium alcohol like it was cheap Butterbeer.

Now, Granger looked more than halfway convinced. Draco was on the verge of congratulating himself for pulling wool over her pretty doe eyes - no mean feat, that - when she gave him another of those piercing looks.

"I want you to swear it," she said. "Swear to me you had nothing to do with Ron being poisoned."

Draco took a deep breath, weighing his options. A sad, twisted smile crossed his face at the easy solution.

"Alright, I'll swear it. May I have my wand?"

"Where is it?" Granger asked, suspicious of any trick.

"My front left trouser pocket," he answered. Keeping her wand trained on him, she reached into his pocket and extracted his wand. Draco could feel his muscles clench in anticipation at her delicate touch and quickly thought of icy cold showers and disgusting potions ingredients to repress his natural reaction.

Granger gripped the bottom third of his wand in her left hand, pointing the tip towards his groin. Draco mentally saluted her cleverness. Even if he tried to yank the wand away and jinx her, he was all too likely to hit himself where it hurt. Not to mention that Granger still was holding her own wand steady at his throat. He loosely wrapped his hand around the hawthorne wand's grip, relaxing a fraction at the comfortable familiarity of the conduit for his magic.

"I swear on my father's soul that I had nothing whatsoever to do with the poisoning of Ronald Bilius Weasley," Draco enunciated crisply, speaking the words with no hesitation.

Granger, no doubt recalling the little blond brat who never stopped invoking the father he had idolized, immediately accepted his oath. "I had to know," she murmured, looking abashed and releasing his wand with a clear if silent apology in her eyes.

"It's fine," he said gruffly, as they both glanced at his left forearm. Granger had every reason to suspect him.

"I'm sorry - " she began.

"It's fine," he repeated. "Please don't mention it again," Draco cut her off with icy politeness. "Would you prefer to begin with Potions or Arithmancy?"

He had no desire to hear Granger apologize for an accusation had been entirely accurate. After all, she had no way of knowing that he considered swearing on his father's soul to be entirely meaningless. So far as Draco could tell, between his fanatical devotion to the Dark Lord and the damage done by the Dementors in Azkaban, Lucius had no soul left to be foresworn and forfeited by his son's bold-faced lie.

(x) (x) (x)

Later in the morning, after they had gone over this week's Arithmancy problems and commented on each other's essays in Potions and Charms, Hermione hesitantly broached the subject of Occlumency.

"Um, Malfoy?" she asked.

He looked up from his Transfiguration textbook, cocking one blond eyebrow to indicate he was paying attention.

"I was hoping we could work on my Occlumency for a bit," she requested.

"Certainly, if you don't mind me prowling around your mind," he agreed. "What shall I search for today?"

"Maybe you should choose, to make it harder for me to keep you out," Hermione suggested. Malfoy was a good teacher and she now felt reasonably comfortable with the basics of blocking access to her mind. However, she sometimes worried that he was going easy on her, or giving her an unfair advantage by allowing her to choose topics that she could readily obfuscate. Like Muggle birthday parties, where she could focus on silly memories of cartoon characters on pointy cardboard hats to distract Malfoy from more painful memories, like the time she was the only girl in her primary class not invited to a schoolmate's party.

Malfoy regarded her in silence for a long moment, until a sudden grin lit up his face. "There's an interesting rumor circulating about you in the dungeons, Granger. How about I look for confirmation as to whether it's true?"

"What's the rumor, Malfoy?" Hermione demanded. She could only imagine what that vicious cow Pansy Parkinson might be saying.

"Don't give me that look, Granger," Malfoy smirked.

"What look are you referring to?" she asked.

"Like you're channeling McGonagall and thinking up an especially horrid detention for me," he explained, an amused glint in his eyes. "Besides, it's a very innocuous rumor - not spicy at all."

"What is it then?" she questioned, consumed by curiosity.

"The rumor is that you're not really a Muggleborn," Malfoy said smoothly, with no hint that he was consciously switching out the more derogatory term, "but actually a connection of Hector Dagworth-Granger, the famed potioneer."

"I know who he is," Hermione snapped. "Professor Slughorn asked me if I was related to him on the first day of class. You and Nott snickered about it behind my back."

Malfoy shrugged it off. "We weren't making fun of you, not really. Nott said it would explain why you've always managed to beat my marks in Potions. Anyways, the rest of the rumor is that Dumbledore asked you to keep the family relationship quiet so he can continue to use you as the poster child for Muggleborn rights."

Hermione bridled at the casual prejudice she'd been struggling against since age eleven, the belief that a Muggleborn witch simply couldn't be that intelligent or skilled in her magic. "Fine," she said, making a split-second decision. "Go ahead and look."

Malfoy left his seat to perch on top of the desk where she was sitting, giving him a better vantage point to make the eye contact required for Legilimency.

"_Legilimens_," he intoned softly, and Hermione began to lead him on a merry mental chase through the recesses of her mind. She wasn't exactly proud of how exhaustively she had researched whether Hector Dagworth-Granger, the founder of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers, was indeed her relative.

Hermione lost track of time as Malfoy sifted through her thoughts. The only sound in the classroom was their breathing, which had fallen into sync as he looked for snippets to support or undercut the rumors about her lineage. He was too strong to repel from her mind outright, so she focused on confining his snooping to repetitive scenes of her brewing potions or reading in the Hogwarts library, hoping that Malfoy would grow tired or impatient and withdraw from her mind before he could get the information he sought.

Their mental stalemate ended when he reached out and grabbed her shoulder. Hermione squeaked at the unexpected contact, and then Malfoy seized upon her distraction. In a blink of an eye, he was rifling through her memories of reviewing the Dagworth-Granger genealogy and comparing it to what she knew of her own family tree. She had even copied Hector's portrait in miniature and brought it home over Christmas to compare it to old photos of her grandparents and great-parents, searching for any likeness. The timelines did not match and she had found no family resemblance.

Malfoy's disappointment at this was palpable. Hermione's anger at his reaction allowed her, for the first time during their Occlumency lessons, to forcibly eject him from her mind.

"You are such a prejudiced arse!" she fumed at him. "Why are you so upset that I'm still a Mudblood? Is it because you let my filthy mouth touch yours?"

"No, it's not that." He ran his hand through his fringe, looking tired. "It's just that you would be safer if you had a claim to some magical heritage, especially from a distinguished family like the Dagworth-Grangers."

"Malfoy, I'm Harry Potter's best friend. I could be Pansy Parkinson's long-lost sister and I still would be a target for Death Eaters."

"It's not just Death Eaters you have to worry about, Granger," he told her, staring down at his hands. "If the Ministry changes hands, all Muggleborns are going to be targeted."

He looked so serious that Hermione wondered what he knew and, bizarrely, felt an urge to comfort him. Instead of embracing him, she kept her arms folded, feeling awkward.

Malfoy looked up and blinked. "Merlin, Granger, you're as pale as I am. I shouldn't have - "

She waved off his apology. "Yes, you should have," she said firmly. "No other Death Eater is going to do me the courtesy of asking whether I'm too tired to defend my own mind."

"Probably not," Malfoy agreed, with a forced smile. "Would you like some chocolate? It will help with the headache I'm sure you have."

"Yes, please," Hermione said, gratefully accepting half a bar of Honeyduke's finest. They munched on the chocolate in a companionable silence, seated next to each other on the desk, until she spoke up again.

"Malfoy?" she inquired.

"Hmmm?" he hummed, an encouraging noise around a mouthful of chocolate.

"Why did you grab my shoulder?" She could still feel the warm shock of his fingers at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, under the starched fabric of her uniform blouse.

"Because I wanted to," Malfoy smirked, like the annoying boy he was. "I was trying to throw you off balance, because I wanted to find out if the rumor was true. And I also felt like touching you."

She turned her head to face him, to try and gauge the truth of his words, and found that he had turned as well, leaving their lips centimeters apart.

"You do have a filthy mouth," he said in a low, husky voice, "but that's a compliment, not an insult. And the only thing that upsets me about kissing you is that I haven't been allowed to for weeks now."

Malfoy sounded so aggrieved that Hermione found herself biting back a smile. He really was a spoilt brat, always used to getting exactly what he wanted.

"May I?" he whispered, soft and sweet.

She gave her assent wordlessly, pressing her lips against his. He tasted like chocolate and felt like home and Hermione realized she was in so deep that she might never get out.

(x) (x) (x)

A couple of weeks later, Hermione was sitting with Harry and Ron by the fireplace in the Gryffindor common room. It was late enough that they were the only people still awake. Even their fellow sixth years, who had spent the late evening hours alternating between agonizing over Snape's viciously difficult DADA essay and the Apparition test to be held in less than a month's time, finally had gone to bed.

She had just returned Ron's freshly corrected essay, waving aside his embarrassing declarations of undying love and gratitude, when Kreacher appeared with a loud _crack_. A second crack announced Dobby's arrival, and the two elves began arguing shrilly as who got to go first on reporting on the "Malfoy boy," as Kreacher referred to him in a tone of deepest respect, bordering on adoration.

"What is this?" she asked in shock. "What's going on, Harry?"

There was a guilty pause before he answered. "Well . . . they've been following Malfoy for me."

"Night and day," Kreacher croaked, with a significant and sinister glance at Hermione.

"Dobby has not slept for a week," the other elf proudly informed Harry, swaying on his feet. Hermione dismissed that as exaggeration, since Dobby and Kreacher had evidently been taking shifts, with the older elf apparently getting an eyeful of her snogging Malfoy. Dobby, fortunately, seemed ignorant.

"How long have you been _abusing_ Kreacher and Dobby like this?" an indignant Hermione asked Harry. What she really wanted to know was how long the house-elves had been spying on her with Malfoy.

"Only a week, like Dobby said," Harry defended himself, missing Hermione's subtle sigh of relief. "Have either of you found out anything?" he asked the elves.

"Master Malfoy moves with a nobility that befits his pure blood," Kreacher croaked, giving Hermione what could only be classified as a wink. "His features recall the fine bones of my mistress and his manners - "

Hermione blushed beet-red, realizing Kreacher must have been watching on Thursday night when she traced the lines of Malfoy's jaw with her fingers and her tongue.

"Draco Malfoy is a bad boy!" squeaked Dobby angrily. "A bad boy who - who - "

Looking at the little elf, the tassel of his tea cozy wobbling as he shook with rage, Hermione revised her earlier opinion. Dobby had seen them together and clearly did not approve, but either fondness for her or some residual loyalty to the Malfoy family kept him silent. She decided upon the latter as the little elf tried to fling himself upon the flames, forcing Harry to catch him about the waist and restrain him.

Harry gave Kreacher a stern look, cutting short any further praise of the blond Slytherin. "Yeah, we don't need to hear about you being in love with Malfoy. Let's fast forward to where he's actually been going."

Hermione sent up a silent prayer of thanks that Harry had asked about where Malfoy went, and not what he did once he got there.

"Master Malfoy eats in the Great Hall, he sleeps in a dormitory in the dungeons, he attends his classes in a variety of - " Kreacher recited in his foghorn voice. As Hermione had hoped, he readily seized upon Harry's sloppy phrasing to avoid provide any useful - or damning - information about Malfoy's activities.

"Dobby, you tell me," Harry interrupted with impatience.

Once again, Hermione held her breath as Dobby looked at her, his orb-like eyes shining with reproach in the firelight. He would not meet Harry's eyes as he carefully phrased his response. "Harry Potter, sir, the Malfoy boy is breaking no rules that Dobby can discover, but he is still keen to avoid detection."

Slowly, Hermione exhaled in relief as the discussion veered off into speculation as to what Malfoy was doing in the Room of Requirement. While she did not know what the room transformed into for Malfoy, she wasn't overly concerned. There were limits to the amount of trouble he could cause at Hogwarts, alone, without the support or prodding of more hardened Death Eaters. Perhaps he was just seeking solitude, or working on some class project.

"You've done brilliantly, Dobby," Harry praised the free elf with enthusiasm.

"Kreacher's done well, too," Hermione said kindly, wanting the older elf to know she appreciated his discretion.

He merely looked disgusted at her gratitude, or perhaps it was his knowledge that his beloved Master Malfoy was sullying himself with her. "The Mudblood is speaking to Kreacher, Kreacher will pretend he cannot hear - "

"Get out of here," Harry reprimanded the old elf. Kreacher obeyed with alacrity, disappearing with another _crack_.

Harry and Ron were chortling at the idea of Crabbe and Goyle lurking outside the Room of Requirement disguised as little Hufflepuff girls.

"Blimey!" Ron gloated. "No wonder Crabbe and Goyle don't look too happy these days, if Malfoy's got them wearing skirts and transforming into ickle firsties. I'm surprised they don't tell him to stuff it."

"Well, they wouldn't, would they, if he's shown them his Dark Mark?" Harry asked rhetorically, returning to his favorite "Malfoy is a Death Eater" theme.

Hermione shifted uncomfortably, cursing Dumbledore for binding her to remain silent. "Hmmm . . . the Dark Mark we don't know exists," was all she said, or could say.

"You'll see," Harry said with confidence.

"Yes, I will," Hermione agreed. Since it was Wednesday and already past curfew, she almost certainly would be seeing Malfoy's Mark, in the flesh, in less than twenty-four hours.

"Er, have you had any luck yet in finding out if Malfoy has taken the Dark Mark?" Harry asked awkwardly, looking anywhere but directly at her.

"Why, of course!" Hermione replied, deadpan. "Every time we study together, he takes his shirt off and there it is!"

Ron guffawed and Harry looked sulky. "You don't have to be so sarcastic about it, Hermione."

She merely shrugged, before turning serious. "He's not the arrogant prat he was before, Harry," Hermione said earnestly. "His father being arrested and sent to Azkaban changed him. Malfoy's just trying to keep his head down and get through the term."

"Why's he spending so much time in the Room of Requirement, then?" Harry challenged her. "Have you ever gone there to study with him?"

"No, and I don't know," she answered in reverse order. "But I'll find out," she promised. "In the meantime, you focus on getting Professor Slughhorn's memory, okay?"

(x) (x) (x)

Draco was torn between relief and alarm when Purus alighted on the Slytherin table at breakfast time a few days before the Easter hols.

He was relieved that his owl had made in safely back from a trip to the Manor, populated as it was by Death Eaters who would find it amusing to torture or kill another wizard's familiar. However, he also was alarmed that Purus was clutching a letter from Lucius as well as the expected communication from Draco's mum.

Despite what certain reckless Gryffindors claimed, Draco was not a coward. He simply had a well-honed sense of self-preservation. Accordingly, he opened his father's letter first, after only the briefest hesitation to check there were no nasty spells on it to surprise the unwary.

Lucius's usually neat handwriting sprawled untidily across the parchment, a visual sign of either repeated torture or growing mental instability. Probably both, Draco thought without pity. His father had brought his fate on himself, pledging allegiance to a madman. It was too bad Lucius had also seen fit to drag his family down with him.

The message was short and uncompromising:

_Draco - You shall return to Malfoy Manor for the Easter holidays. An old family friend is desirous of hearing about the progress you have made in the current term. Do __not__ let our family down. _

_\- Father_

Swallowing hard, Draco crumpled the parchment. Even though Granger was going to be visiting the Den, or Burrow, or whatever it was the Weasley family called their hovel, he had been mildly looking forward to the next week. With no classes to distract him and fewer spying eyes with most students gone, it would have been a chance for Draco to put in some serious hours working on the Vanishing Cabinet, trying to tweak the theorems for magical elevators to apply to the linked pair of cabinets. Now he suppressed a shiver, his shoulder muscles already hunched in anticipation of the torment that awaited him at his family's home.

**A/N: Portions of the dialogue in the hospital wing and common room scenes are taken ****_verbatim_**** from HBP and re-purposed here.**


	8. Chapter 8: April 1997

**A/N: Trigger warnings apply to the first scene, which is a Dark revel. **

**_April 1997_**

As the Dark revel progressed, the behavior of his fellow Death Eaters growing more depraved with every hour, Draco repeatedly thanked Merlin that his uniform including a silvery mask with a twisted grin to cover the expression of horrified shock on his real face.

For the youngest Death Eater, there was no hiding on the sidelines. He was watched closely by his fellows to make sure "the Malfoy whelp was having a good time," as Yaxley sneeringly put it. So far, Draco had managed to avoid killing anyone, but he was getting good practice in with the other two Unforgivable curses. At least his _Crucio_, unlike his aunt's, wasn't strong enough to cause permanent damage.

Draco had always believed with all his heart that pureblood wizards (of the proper political persuasion, of course) stood at the apex of civilization, with blood traitors, half-bloods, Mudbloods, and Muggles and other animals in descending order beneath them. The savagery that he was witnessing tonight, inflicted by supposedly respectable pureblood wizards upon helpless Muggles, mostly young women, was calling that belief into question. There was nothing civilized about cruelty to animals, and the Muggle females - far from being bestial creatures as he had been taught - seemed no different than any witch bereft of her wand.

Turning away from a naked Muggle girl with her throat slit - his father's handiwork - Draco nearly tripped over Thorfinn Rowle. Rowle was rutting into one of the Muggle captives, her pained whimpers providing a sickening counterpoint to his grunts of pleasure. The girl was on her hands and knees, her curly brown hair swinging like a curtain in front of her face in time with Rowle's brutal thrusts. Draco swallowed down bile at the resemblance to Granger.

The older Death Eater caught him watching and smirked. "Want to go next, little Malfoy? Her cunt's not as tight as it was at the start of the night, but you can always fuck her in the arse."

"I'd rather not sully myself with some Muggle slag," Draco declined with nonchalance he was far from feeling.

"Have a go, m'boy," Percival Parkinson urged with a heavy hand on Draco's shoulder, breathing Firewhiskey fumes into face. "You don't want the Dark Lord to think you aren't fully enjoying your first revel. She's a nice little fuck, too. Looks like Potter's Mudblood, doesn't she?"

"Fuck off," he told the older wizard, furious at the ham-handed pressure and sickened that some poor Muggle was being raped and likely would be murdered because she had the misfortune to resemble Granger. "I'm not sticking my dick in that filth. I get enough pureblood quim at Hogwarts, including from your daughter."

Predictably, and as Draco had hoped, Pansy's father took offense and swung at him. He dodged easily and hit the man with a Stinging Hex. Brawling with another Death Eater wouldn't get him punished, so long as he could avoid maiming the other man or losing the fight. If either of those happened, he was in for a world of hurt.

With Parkinson drunk enough to want to fight like a Muggle, it took mere minutes for Draco to disarm and Stun him. He could have done it more quickly, but his fellow Death Eaters expected him to toy with and humiliate the other wizard. Once Parkinson was facedown on the damp ground vomiting slugs and with shrubbery sprouting from his ears, Professor Snape stepped through the ring of Death Eaters who had been watching the fight. His mask was off and his face looked grim.

"Come along," the Potions master snapped, grabbing Draco's upper arm. "You've had enough _fun_ for one evening. You need to get back to Hogwarts, lazy boy, to work on your mission for the Dark Lord."

Draco made a token protest, one that perfectly concealed his relief and gratitude that his godfather had come forward to save him once again.

(x) (x) (x)

Severus Snape dipped his quill into a pot of red ink, viciously crossing out the numerous errors in another dunderheaded student's essay. His head was aching as a consequence of last night's revel, from stress rather than a hangover - it would be a foolish spy indeed who drank to excess in that company - and that made his grading curve even more steep than usual.

It was a cold comfort that he had kept his Unbreakable Vow to Narcissa and that her precious little boy still was not a killer. Severus had become largely inured to what went on at a Dark revel, but it had pained him to watch his godson last night, his posture rigid as a Muggle writhed and screamed under his wand. Children should be protected from such horrors, not forced to take part. As hard as it had been for Severus to watch Draco being tortured by Lucius and others over the Christmas holidays, it had been even worse to watch him turn torturer when home at the Manor for Easter.

He hoped the boy would be fine. Draco had quietly bid Severus a good night outside the Slytherin dungeons. Other than the trembling of his hand when he accepted a vial of Dreamless Sleep, one might have thought Draco was indifferent to the atrocities he had witnessed and participated in. He had declined to talk about the Dark revel, and Severus only hoped his godson had someone else he could confide in, though he doubted it.

Severus read through the blond boy's essay on defending oneself against werewolves, making minimal corrections. Draco was intelligent; moreover, he had met Fenrir Greyback on a few occasions, so his DADA essay quite properly focused on the hexes and permissible curses that could maim or at least incapacitate a full-grown werewolf. There was none of the bleeding-heart tripe about distribution of Wolfsbane Potion to the misunderstood creatures that had allowed Severus the pleasure of marking Hermione Granger down to an "E."

A paragraph on the last page of Draco's essay caught his godfather's eye. "According to Muggle folklore, werewolves may be killed by a silver bullet shot from a gun, a type of Muggle weapon." Draco, who was a talented artist, had sketched a lethal-looking handgun in the margins. "Since sickles are minted of silver, it is possible that a wizard could utilize his pocket change and Oppungo to the same effect."

Severus knit his eyebrows and flipped through the stack of essays he previously had marked. "It is widely believed in the Muggle world that a werewolf can be killed if shot by a silver bullet. There is evidence that this belief is accurate." Here, Miss Granger had dropped a footnote to several magical textbooks. "Although guns are not the answer, since it would difficult and illegal for a witch or wizard to obtain the necessary Muggle permits, the use of the Oppungo spell and silver sickles may work as a substitute for self-defense. However, further research is necessary to verify that the silver used to mint sickles is not adulterated," she had written.

The professor sat back in his chair, frowning in thought. Over the years, he had developed a nose for cheating. This, however, was not a case of lazy, arrogant Potter or the gormless youngest Weasley boy copying off their more diligent friend. The similarities between Draco's essay and Miss Granger's were the sort of cross-pollination that resulted when highly intelligent students from different backgrounds studied together. He had seen it most frequently among the Ravenclaws, but never between a Gryffindor and one of his own Slytherin students.

Severus could practically hear Albus Dumbledore chortling with satisfaction in his head, blue eyes twinkling as the old man put forth his mad idea that "intellectual intercourse" between his godson and Harry Potter's swotty best friend, in the form of mandatory one-on-one tutoring, could help Draco see the Light.

With a soft _thunk_, Severus's head collided against the desk in pure, unadulterated exasperation. The Potions professor had no idea how far things had gone between his godson and Miss Granger, but he had to know if there was anything more than studying going on between her and Draco, for his godson's safety as well her own. Luckily enough, Severus knew exactly how to find out.

(x) (x) (x)

For once, Hermione was the first to arrive on a Thursday evening. Normally Malfoy was waiting for her in the fourth floor classroom, because it took her a bit of time to finish her own dinner in the Great Hall and make up a plate to bring for him.

She set Malfoy's meal on top of one of the desks and began Transfiguring other desks - two into comfortable armchairs and a third into a long table, like those found in the library. She had just finished arranging her books on the table when a tapping at one of the windows interrupted her. Hermione thought it was an owl, most likely with a message from Malfoy asking to reschedule, but instead got the tardy prat himself, hovering on his broomstick and grinning at her.

She was scolding him even as she unlatched and opened the window. "Draco Malfoy! Get in here before you plummet to your death!"

Malfoy clambered through the window, entirely unrepentant and managing to make it look graceful even encumbered with his racing broomstick. He propped the Nimbus negligently against the wall and than stopped her scolding with the simple expedient of a kiss.

"Don't be a shrew, Granger. Not when it's the first time I've been alone with you in more than a week," he murmured against her lips when they came up for air. "Flying helps me forget about everything. Besides, I haven't fallen off a broomstick since I was three."

She gave his Nimbus a nasty look. "Then you're due for a fall, Malfoy. How can you possibly trust your safety dozens of meters up in the air to a thin little stick?"

"Easily enough. I'm a good flyer," he told her, with a confidence that Hermione would have condemned as arrogance if she hadn't seen him on the Quidditch pitch. "Besides, there are more dangerous things in the world," he added as a grim afterthought.

"Malfoy, are you alright?" she asked. Despite having a week's holiday, he looked exhausted and far older than his sixteen years, and she hadn't missed his comment about wanting to forget.

"Fine," he shrugged off her concern. "How was your break? Are you well?" Malfoy asked. His questions were casual, but with an underlying intensity that seemed odd to Hermione. They had only been apart for a week, and it wasn't as though they were even officially dating.

"The Easter hols were lovely and I'm perfectly well," she smiled in reassurance.

"That's good." Malfoy ran his fingers lightly along the column of her throat. Some of the tension seemed to drain out of him. "I'm just glad you're safe."

"What's going on, Malfoy?" Hermione asked him uneasily. "Do you know something that I don't?"

He gave her a ghost of a smirk. "There are many things I know that you don't, Granger. But I'm sure you're aware that you are a target because of your blood status and association with Potter." He practically spat the other boy's name.

"Yes, I know," Hermione acknowledged, touched by his concern. "But I'd still be at risk even if I'd never spoken a word to Harry in my life." She felt compelled to defend her best friend to Malfoy, and vice versa, even if it was an exercise in futility with both of them.

"You'd be less of a target," he argued. "You could put that bushy head of yours down and hide."

"I'd never do that!" Hermione said, offended.

"And that's why you're in Gryffindor instead of Ravenclaw," Malfoy muttered. Rather than flinging the words as an insult, he sounded resigned, even a bit sad. "I only wish there was a way . . . ."

Hermione rested a hand on his arm. Despite his bleak mood, he seemed more open than usual, and she wanted to seize on that. "Draco," she began hesitantly. "Why do you spend so much time in the Room of Requirement? Does it have something to do with why you're so worried?"

His eyes snapped to hers and there was no doubt she had his full attention. He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing, and Hermione thought he would refuse to answer, maybe even storm out of the classroom.

To her great surprise, he answered. "I'm sure you've guessed that I'm under a lot of pressure from home," he said softly, picking his words with care.

Hermione's eyes widened. The Order had speculated Voldemort was using Malfoy Manor as his base, but she never would have expected Malfoy to confirm that, even obliquely. She nodded, slowly, hoping her silence would encourage Malfoy to continue.

"The Room's become a refuge of sorts for me, a place I go to try and relieve that pressure. And sometimes, I just need to get away from the snake pit, to be alone for a bit," he explained.

"I understand. Sometimes I just need to get away from Harry and Ron and the craziness in Gryffindor tower," Hermione offered, inordinately pleased that Malfoy had confided in her.

"The next time we meet, could we maybe study there? I'd like to see what the Room turns into for you." She nibbled nervously on her lips, certain Malfoy would refuse.

He hesitated, but then a smile warmed his quicksilver eyes. "Sure, why not? I'll meet you outside the Room on Sunday morning and we can enter together."

(x) (x) (x)

Granger was waiting, not very patiently, in front of the troll tapestry when Draco arrived for their Sunday morning study session.

He paused for a moment to study her unobserved, admiring the curves revealed by her dark green jumper and well-worn denims. Really, the girl's baggy school robes should be burned as a travesty, though Draco didn't think he would deal well with random blokes eying up Granger. He could only be grateful that Weaselbee was too thick and Potter too saintly to realize their best girl friend had grown up into such a luscious little lioness.

"What are you smirking at, Malfoy?" Granger demanded as soon as he was close enough for her to make out his expression in the torchlit corridor.

"I like your jumper," Draco said innocently. "The color suits you." Indeed, he _really_ liked her jumper. The wool looked soft - cashmere, he would hazard a guess - and his palms practically itched to caress the soft material and the even softer skin underneath.

On impulse, he grabbed her hand. He could open the Room to both of them without holding on to Granger, but her hand felt warm and soft and fit snugly within his. "_I need you to turn into my bedroom at the Manor_," he silently directed the Room of Requirement as they paced back and forth three times. "_Not the Room of Hidden Things_. _And keep anyone - especially that wanker Potter - from disturbing us_."

Since Granger's request a few days before to study with him in the Room of Requirement, he had given some thought to the best way to allay her suspicions. The Room's current transformation should do just that. As a bonus, it was certain to put Potty and the Weasel into a snit when Granger reported back to them, as she was sure to do. Courteously, Draco opened the door for Granger and made a gesture for her to precede him. She walked in without hesitation and gave a gratifying gasp at the Room's appearance.

He watched with a proprietary air as she took in the spacious suite, with the crystal chandelier, marble fireplace, and double set of French doors co-existing in surprising harmony with a comfortable overstuffed couch and armchairs and his Falmouth Falcons and Weird Sisters posters.

"This is your room at home?" she asked.

"Indeed," he confirmed.

"It's very nice," Granger commented. "Somehow, I thought your bedroom would be dark green and gloomy. This is much lighter than I imagined." She spun in a slow circle on the grey and navy diamond-patterned rug, taking in the silver-grey walls with white trim and crisp white duvet and pillows.

"Did you really spend that much time thinking about my bedroom?" he teased her.

She just winked at him as she walked over to the king-size bed. Gingerly, Granger settled herself on top of the duvet, running one hand along the expensive Egyptian cotton while bouncing slightly to test the mattress. "Your bed is outrageous, Malfoy!" she announced with a bright smile.

"I thought you wanted to study?" Draco asked hoarsely, fascinated by the way her perky breasts were bobbing up and down with her movements.

"Not just yet," she temporized. She flopped back on his pillows and gave him a saucy smile. "I can see why you come here when you want to relax, or just take a nap."

"Get off the bed now, Granger, or I won't answer for the consequences," Draco warned her in a husky voice, positively relishing the way her hair looked spread out on his pillow.

Wisely, she opted against tempting him any further, removing herself to the sofa and opening her Potions textbook with a faint pout. Almost immediately, she slapped it down in discontent.

"Malfoy, what do you know about Apparition? My test is tomorrow."

"I've been to the same Ministry-approved course as you, Granger," Draco shrugged. "And I'm too young to even take the test for my Apparition license until September."

"Bollocks, Malfoy!" Granger narrowed her eyes at him. "I have every reason to suspect that you've Apparated plenty of times." To her credit, she maintained eye contact, rather than letting her eyes drift to his left forearm.

"Well, most pureblood families do teach their children Apparition early and let them practice on their estates," he readily admitted, settling next to her on the couch, close enough that his legs touched hers.

Granger rolled her eyes in predictable annoyance at this extra advantage available to the privileged few. "That's so unfair!"

"Life's not fair, princess," Draco observed cynically. "Do you want some Apparition tips or don't you?"

"Please," she gritted out.

"And what are you willing to do for me in exchange?" he asked mischievously.

"I'll look over your Transfiguration essay," she bargained.

He shook his head and smirked. "Not good enough. And not quite what I had in mind."

"Malfoy, you had better not be asking me to trade sexual favors for your help in getting my Apparition license," she growled.

"I would never do that!" he protested, eyes wide with mock innocence. Besides, putting that kind of pressure on Granger would assuredly backfire. He did intend to take full advantage of having her in this facsimile of his bedroom, but he had better ways of coaxing her to snog him.

"Here are my terms," he announced with a grin. "Once you've passed your Apparition test tomorrow, due in no small part to my last-minute assistance, you'll come flying with me on a date and time of my choosing."

Granger looked nonplussed. "You want me to come flying with you?" she repeated.

"Yes, since that is a legal form of transportation for an underage wizard like myself. And I think we'd both enjoy it."

"But I hate flying!" she protested. "I haven't been on a broomstick since my first year."

"All the more reason to want to get your Apparition license on the first try," Draco pointed out, his grin widening at her trapped expression. "And I promise you'll like flying with me."

Granger hesitated, muttering something uncomplimentary under her breath.

"You wouldn't want Pansy to pass a test that you fail, would you? And even Crabbe is surprisingly good at Apparating," Draco needled.

As anticipated, that was enough to push her over the edge. "Fine, Malfoy! I agree," she huffed.

Draco didn't bother to hide his triumphant smile. This was going to be absolutely fucking _brilliant_.

(x) (x) (x)

Something odd was going on with Malfoy, and Harry Potter was determined to get to the bottom of it. He just knew the blond tosser was a Death Eater, and his instincts screamed that every attack at Hogwarts and Hogsmeade could be placed on that bigoted prick's account. He shared that theory with his two best friends, _ad nauseam_, as they sat in the courtyard enjoying the spring sunshine.

For once, Hermione didn't defend the ferrety bastard against Harry's suspicions, focused as she was on passing her Apparition test. "Destination, determination, deliberation," she recited to herself, ignoring the aspersions cast on Malfoy.

But when Harry began talking about his thwarted attempts to discover what the slimy Slytherin was doing in the Room of Requirement, Hermione - already stressed due to her impending Apparition test - finally lost her temper.

"For the last time, just forget about Malfoy!" she snapped, launching into an impassioned lecture on the need to get Professor Slughorn's memory.

"Look, Harry," she added in an undertone, "I found out yesterday what the Room turns into for Malfoy. I'll tell you later, but I promise it's nothing sinister."

"Why can't you tell me now?" he whispered back. "Why didn't you say something earlier?"

"Because I don't want Ron to Splinch himself when he's taking his Apparition test," Hermione hissed back.

Harry raised his eyebrows at that, but dropped the subject - for now - merely wishing both of his friends good luck as they left for Hogsmeade. He made his way to the Potions classroom, to a class that was an utter waste of time. Professor Slughorn refused to talk about anything other than Harry's perfect Elixir to Induce Euphoria, while Malfoy was sullenly sour but did nothing suspicious.

After what seemed like an interminable wait, but was in reality only a couple of hours, Hermione and Ron were climbing through the portrait hole. Hermione was beaming from ear to ear. "Harry!" she cried as soon as she saw him in the common room. "Harry, I passed!"

"Well done," he congratulated her. "And Ron?" he asked, though the redhead's morose face gave him the answer.

Hermione sympathetically related that Ron had failed by half an eyebrow, but then she refocused like a laser on Sluggy's missing memory. "How did it go with Slughorn?" she asked pointedly.

"What's Malfoy doing in the Room of Requirement?" Harry asked by way of diversion. "You said you'd tell me after you two took the test."

Hermione looked reluctant. "You have to promise this doesn't go any further."

After a moment under her glare, Harry and Ron both nodded. Then, to Harry's alarm, Hermione actually blushed.

"Malfoy sometimes gets a bit homesick, or just wants a break from Slytherin house politics," she related in a low tone.

Harry rolled his eyes, utterly unsympathetic to Malfoy. "So?" he prompted.

"The Room turns into his bedroom at home," Hermione stated in a rushed whisper, her words running together.

An appalled silence met her words. Then, both Harry and Ron began yelling. It was a sign of Hermione's desperation that she cast a _Muffliato _on them, despite her usual unwillingness to use any spells invented by the Half-Blood Prince.

"You were where?" Harry demanded, the more rational of the two, hoping he had misheard. Hermione was far too trusting of the junior Death Eater, but surely she wouldn't have gone with him into his bedroom. Malfoy could have done _anything_ to her there.

"What in the bloody hell were you doing in Malfoy's bedroom?" Ron bellowed, his face so red that Harry half-expected to see steam pouring from his ears.

"Yes, I was in Malfoy's bedroom," Hermione cried. "So what? I go into your room all the time."

"That's different," Harry spluttered.

"Yeah, we're not Malfoy!" Ron chimed in. "And you still haven't told us what you were doing with that pointy-faced git _in his bedroom_."

"We were just studying, Ronald," Hermione stated, tossing her head. "Like we do every Sunday and Thursday."

And Harry knew, with the same instinctive certainty that told him Malfoy was a Death Eater, that Hermione was lying through her teeth.

(x) (x) (x)

"Thomas, take Finnigan to the hospital wing," Professor Snape barked. "Miss Bulstrode, please escort Miss Parkinson there as well," he added in a gentler tone.

Any trace of gentleness disappeared as he surveyed the remaining students in his Sixth Year DADA class. "The rest of you may spend the remainder of class contemplating your gross inadequacy with wandless Shield Charms while reading chapter sixteen in _Confronting the Faceless_."

"Open your textbooks _now_," Professor Snape snapped, confronted by twenty-odd pimply adolescent faces with expressions ranging from bored to outright mutinous. A malcontented shuffling and rustling greeted his command, but they obeyed.

When the class was sufficiently engrossed in their reading, Severus focused his attention on Hermione Granger, intently bent over the textbook even though she probably had memorized it by now.

"_Legilimens_," he said under his breath. Although he did not have direct eye contact, he expected no difficulties in accessing her mind. Unlike Draco, who had taken to Occlumency like a duck to water, the Granger girl's mind would be unprotected and easy to probe for information.

After a disorienting few moments - _did the girl really have that much information crammed in her curly head?_ \- Severus found his bearings.

Draco featured in a variety of her memories over the years, none of them particularly fond. The professor found himself reliving petty exchanges of insults between the two, complaints by Potter and Weasley about their schoolyard rival, and - bringing a slight flush to the professor's sallow cheeks - rampant speculation in the Gryffindor girls' dormitory about Draco's rumored sexual prowess. The memories of a stinging slap delivered to Draco's smirking face and his godson's transformation into a ferret both provided a welcome relief from Miss Brown's explicit fantasies as related to her roommates.

Professor Snape extricated himself from the brunette girl's thoughts and sat back in his desk, nothing betraying his deep disquiet. Everything he had seen in Miss Granger's mind had been genuine and innocuous. It also was a clever, clever deception. She had been meeting with Draco twice each week since September, and those recent interactions should have been there at the surface for him to find and read. But he had been deflected away with surprising skill and subtlety.

There were only two people in the castle, other than himself, who could have taught her how to shield her mind like that. To put it bluntly, Dumbledore did not think Miss Granger important enough to learn Occlumency. Apparently, Draco disagreed.

Severus allowed himself the luxury of pinching the bridge of his nose in aggravation. The fact that Miss Granger was concealing her thoughts about her meetings with Draco was a telling admission that something other than studying was going on. But Severus was damned if he knew whether that was a good or a bad thing, or whether he should - or even could - stop whatever was developing between his godson and the Muggleborn witch.

**A/N: A couple of Hermione's lines are direct quotes from HBP.**


	9. Chapter 9: May 1997

**_May 1997_**

Hermione screamed in terror, knowing her death was imminent. Too late, she had discovered that Malfoy still was an evil bastard under his pretty exterior and veneer of good manners. As he laughed sadistically, she could only hope that Harry and Ron would avenge her.

"Granger - calm the fuck down! It was just a shallow little dive." Malfoy sounded half-disgruntled, half-amused, his breath tickling the shell of her ear. "What's the point of being a witch - and a Gryffindor, to boot - if you're too scared to fly?"

She took a few deep breaths, inhaling the cool night air in an effort to calm herself. Rather than working on their Arithmancy projects or other schoolwork, Malfoy had shown up at their classroom with his Nimbus 2001 in hand, insisting it was a perfect night to go flying. Arms folded and grey eyes implacable, he had goaded her into agreeing, reminding her she had agreed to this in exchange for what he arrogantly described as his invaluable assistance in passing her Apparition test. They hadn't been flying for long when Malfoy had decided to move on from lazy loops, which she could tolerate, to the outright dive that had just made her scream.

"Granger, would you be so kind as to stop digging your claws in my wrists?" Malfoy requested. He was seated behind her, with his hands lightly clasped around the broom handle, his arms encircling her body just above the hips. Malfoy felt warm and solid behind her, but she was too scared of plummeting to her death to derive much enjoyment from his proximity. As directed, she fractionally loosened her grip on him.

"Good," he praised. "Now place your hands on the broom." He adjusted his grip on the handle so she could do so comfortably. "You're going to steer now, alright?"

Hermione nodded, not confident she could force words out of her fear-constricted throat, and Malfoy calmly instructed her to turn the broom slightly to the left. Following his instructions, they began a relatively slow and slightly wobbly circuit counterclockwise around the castle. The second lap came easier, and the third was easier still. To her surprise, Hermione realized Malfoy was a good teacher. When she made a mistake, he corrected it calmly and coolly, unlike Ron, who always lost patience with her, or Harry, who would act as though her errors were a matter of life and death.

As she gained slightly more confidence in flying, Malfoy began to add in directions to switch directions or take the broom higher or lower in altitude. "Is this a pattern?" she asked after a few minutes.

She felt his chin graze her head as he nodded. "Slytherin Chaser drill," he explained.

"You're such a good flyer," she blurted out. "Why aren't you captain this year?"

"Family obligations," Malfoy said stiffly, and she cursed her own tactlessness, remembering the Mark burned into his arm.

They flew on in silence for a few more minutes. Hermione wondered what he was thinking.

When Malfoy spoke again, he sounded detached and grim. "You aren't going to like this," he warned, "but I want you to let me take control of the broom. If you ever need to make a quick escape and there are anti-Apparition wards in place, you need to be able to hang on."

"Okay," she agreed, chilled at prospect Malfoy had raised.

"You have two tasks: don't let go and don't scream," he ordered. "If you don't think you can do that, I can Silence you and put a Sticking Charm on your hands."

"I can manage," she told him, determined.

"Alright." With no further warning, the Nimbus shot forward with maximum acceleration. Malfoy banked his racing broom through a series of tight turns before embarking on a series of twisting dives that made the most intimidating Muggle roller coaster she had ever ridden seem as tame as a merry-go-round. Still, she hung on and stayed quiet throughout his maneuvers, even though her lower lip hurt from biting down and her hands cramped from how hard she was holding the broom.

"Good job, Granger," Malfoy praised, once he had brought the broom to a halt, hovering meters above the Black Lake. He pressed a kiss against her neck and then smiled against her skin. "Your pulse is racing," he observed, teasingly. "Is that because of me?"

"It's because you fly like a maniac, you prat!" Hermione retorted. "I swear I saw my life flash before my eyes at least three times."

"Impossible," he scoffed, kissing the pulse point on the other side of her neck. "Your eyes were shut too tightly for you to see a thing."

"Are we done?" Hermione asked hopefully. "You can land us on the Astronomy Tower for a quick snog before curfew," she offered by way of inducement.

Malfoy chuckled. "Not just yet. We're going to go through that drill one more time before I take you up on that tempting offer."

With a sigh, Hermione resumed her white-knuckled grip on the broom.

"Uh-uh," Malfoy corrected. "This time, I want you to hold on with your left hand only."

"Are you mental?" Hermione gasped, turning around to glare at him.

"You're a powerful witch, not a pretty piece of baggage," he regarded her with grey eyes as serious as she had ever seen them. "If Dark wizards are chasing after you and Scarhead on broomsticks, I want you to be able to hex them out of the sky."

"You really are mental," Hermione shook her head, amazed that he would do something, even indirectly, to help her against Voldemort and his forces. "Wait, what if it's you? I won't know you if you're masked."

He gave her a crooked smile. "I'm not a Death Eater you need to worry about, Granger. "

(x) (x) (x)

Septima Vector looked impassively at an unlikely pair of students as they approached her desk at the end of Arithmancy class. Hermione Granger appeared eager and slightly anxious, nibbling on her lower lip, while Draco Malfoy stood behind her, looking impassive.

"Excuse me, Professor," the young witch began politely. "Malfoy and I wanted to request permission to visit the Ministry of Magic to conduct some additional research for each of our term projects."

"Oh?" Professor Vector asked, intrigued. "What information are you hoping to obtain from the Ministry that is not available through the Hogwarts library or your own calculations?"

"For me, it's a question of the regulatory and legal aspects rather than the Arithmancy theory," Miss Granger answered earnestly. "I could come up with the calculations for a Portkey from Tomes and Scrolls in Hogsmeade to Flourish and Blotts in Diagon Alley readily enough, and I know the incantation for the spell, but I still can't figure out how to make it work without Ministry approval."

Over the girl's shoulder, Septima saw the Malfoy boy roll his eyes. "Honestly, Granger. Only you would go to the trouble of making an unauthorized Portkey to travel between two bookstores."

"I don't want to make an illegal Portkey. I want to learn how to make a legal one," she answered him smartly.

The teacher's eyes narrowed. With two decades of experience in teaching adolescents under her belt, she could easily differentiate between actual dislike and metaphorical pigtail pulling and shin kicking. The banter she had just witnessed was firmly in the latter category. Septima was well aware of the bad blood between these two students in the past - she had witnessed it often enough in the past three years - but it seemed that the headmaster's daft idea of assigning Miss Granger to tutor young Mister Malfoy had yielded results. There was a fine line between madness and genius, and Albus Dumbledore had a knack for always landing on the right side of that line.

"What about you, Draco? How will a visit to the Ministry assist you with your term project?"

"I'm hoping to obtain some practical advice from the Ministry's maintenance staff about the installation and repair of magical lifts," he told her with practiced ease. "The Hogwarts library doesn't have much on the subject, since the castle relies on moving staircases."

Septima did not believe his glib answer for a minute. The idea that a Malfoy would stoop to consulting menial Ministry employees to get a better grade on a school project was ludicrous. Something else was motivating him. She opened her mouth to deny his request.

"Also, Granger and I both have Friday afternoons free, so we can share a Portkey," the blond boy added. "I'll keep her out of trouble," he promised with a charming smile, earning himself an annoyed look from the curly-haired witch in question.

That gave the professor pause. Probably Draco Malfoy just wanted to enjoy a spring afternoon with a pretty girl, away from the social pressures imposed by Hogwarts and its rigid House structure. It wasn't a sound pedagogical purpose by any means, but Septima had been young once, too.

"Very well," she sighed. "I'll speak with Professor Dumbledore and make the necessary arrangements." Professor Vector knew the interfering old coot would be thrilled.

(x) (x) (x)

Just after lunch on the next Friday afternoon, Hermione left Hogwarts with an unusually light-hearted Malfoy. A Portkey took them from Hogwarts to the Leaky Cauldron in a disorienting whirl of color. From there, after he helped her up off the pub floor, Hermione insisted on taking a taxi to the Ministry of Magic. Malfoy pouted a bit and surreptitiously wiped the upholstery with his handkerchief, but ultimately agreed it was the most practical way to get there. The Ministry did not allow visitors to Floo in, it was too far to walk, she flatly refused to attempt Side-Along Apparition in crowded London in broad daylight, and being crammed in among hordes of Muggles on the Tube was unacceptable to anyone bearing the Malfoy surname.

Once they arrived at the Ministry, Malfoy insisted on taking the lift with her up to the Department of Magical Transportation on the sixth level, rather than exiting on level four, which housed Magical Maintenance. He overrode her protests with a stolen kiss and an explanation.

"Listen to me, Granger. The department head is an old acquaintance of my father's and very much a traditionalist. You'll have a much more productive day if you let me handle the introductions."

As much as she hated to admit it, Malfoy was right. The iron-haired battle ax of a receptionist glared at her but softened at the sight of his distinctive white-blond hair. "Young Master Malfoy? Wait here for just a moment - Director Thicknesse will be delighted to see you."

Pius Thicknesse reminded Hermione of a Victorian undertaker, with his mutton chop beard, old-fashioned striped waistcoat, and lugubrious expression. The smile he wore to greet Malfoy, though sincere, looked unnatural on his face. "Draco! How are you, my dear boy? I was told a Hogwarts student would be here today for some school project, but I didn't realize it was you."

"I'm afraid it isn't me, sir, but I doubt you'll be disappointed," Malfoy said, at his most polite and charming. "May I introduce my friend, Hermione Granger? Her Arithmancy project has to do with Portkeys, while mine is magical lifts. She's a brilliant student, top of our class."

Hermione blushed slightly, both at the compliment and Malfoy's hand on the small of her back as he lightly drew her forward.

"Charmed, Miss Granger." Thicknesse bowed over her hand and kissed it. "By any chance are you a connection of Hector Dagworth-Granger?"

Malfoy cut off her denial with a smile. "Hermione's too modest to say so, but she's a dab hand at Potions. She's beaten my mark three of the last five years."

Thicknesse regarded her with avuncular approval. "Ah, beauty and brains both. You'll want to hang on to this one, Draco."

"I intend to, sir," Malfoy smirked.

(x) (x) (x)

When Draco fetched Granger later that afternoon, she had a binder full of her own notes and diagrams, as well as several _Gemimo'd_ sets of official-looking regulations.

"Malfoy! I've figured it out!" Her curls were practically vibrating with enthusiasm.

"Oh? Do tell," he invited as he offered her his arm to escort her towards the public Floo that allowed visitors to exit the Ministry. He knew she would be unable to contain herself from enthusiastically sharing whatever it was she had learned.

"Director Thicknesse explained the regulation of Portkeys. You can't create a Portkey just by tapping it with your wand and saying '_Portus_.' The spell won't work unless you're already licensed through the Department of Magical Transportation _or_ if the object has been previously legalized for use as a Portkey."

Draco immediately grasped the implications. "So an unlicensed witch or wizard can create a Portkey if she or he has the proper object. Can you use the same object more than once?"

Granger gave him a wicked little smile. "I don't know, but I'm going to find out. Director Thicknesse was kind enough to give me a couple of items already cleared for use as local Portkeys to analyze for my term project."

"Diagon Alley," he called clearly, throwing a pinch of Floo powder into the visitors' fireplace and gesturing for Granger to precede him. He grinned down at her when they exited at the Leaky Cauldon, continuing their conversation without interruption. "I think your success calls for a celebration. Butterbeer here or ice cream at Fortescue's? We still have a couple of hours until our Portkey back to Hogwarts, unless you've already figured out how to make your own."

"Not quite yet," she laughed. "Let's get ice cream. It's such a nice day."

"How was your meeting with Magical Maintenance? Helpful?" Granger asked as they strolled through Diagon Alley, enjoying the May sunshine and relative warmth of London in comparison to the Scottish Highlands.

"Rather," Draco smirked. He had been fobbed of on some underling named Cattermole, who had fallen over himself to assist the youngest member of the notoriously influential Malfoy family. Cattermole was an idiot, but a useful one, who had unwittingly provided the type of technical information that couldn't be found library books.

Between Cattermole's diagrams and his own Arithmancy calculations, Draco was fairly confident the Vanishing Cabinet would be fully operational in short order, which warranted the most decadent hot fudge sundae Florean Fortescue could concoct. Granger even allowed him to purchase a modest, single scoop of ice cream with sprinkles for her, but he caught her enviously eying his towering treat after they sat at one of the round outside tables.

"Would you like to try some?" he asked, offering her a spoonful. "I do have more than enough to share."

Granger looked from his spoon, with a generous bite of ice cream, chocolate and whipped cream, to his mouth and unconsciously licked her lips. "Aren't you worried about catching my Muggleborn germs?" she teased.

He shook his head with a grin. "Only little boys worry about things like that. I've grown up."

She gave him the most provocative smile he had ever seen on her face. "That you have," she agreed, blushing just a little as she slowly licked the ice cream off the spoon before returning it to him.

Draco adjusted his suddenly too-tight pants as discreetly as possible under the table, wondering if there would be enough time before their Portkey back to Hogwarts to take her up to one of the rooms at the Leaky Cauldron. Probably not, he decided with real regret, even if he could get Granger to agree. Professor Vector had timed their visit very carefully to make those types of shenanigans impossible.

When they left Fortescue's, he took Granger's hand and held it as they strolled through Diagon Alley. She made no protest, but did look up at him with a question in her brown eyes. "Aren't you worried about getting in trouble if we're seen together in public?" she asked, suddenly serious rather than flirtatious. "We could never be like this at Hogwarts."

"Nah," he smirked, secretly amused that she still hadn't caught onto his trick. When she had stumbled at the Leaky Cauldron, he had taken advantage of her momentary disorientation to cast a quick Color Change Charm on her tie, transforming the red and gold into a match for his own green and silver. Draco knew that old Thicknesse would be much more receptive to a pretty young snake than a lioness.

"You're not that famous that you're likely to be recognized on the street as Scarhead's Muggleborn sidekick. If we run into any of my mum's nosy friends, I'll introduce you as Tracey Davis. She's a half-blood Slytherin. Not marriage material, but no one would bat an eyelash if I were dating her," Draco explained.

"Oh," Granger said, investing that single word with hurt and a bit of anger.

"I'm trying my best to keep us both out of trouble," he said earnestly, squeezing her hand. "You can't tell me that Potty and the Weasel wouldn't go spare if they knew about us."

"No, I can't tell you that," she admitted. Then Granger squeezed his hand back, much to his relief. "Harry was having kittens as it was about me leaving the school with you for the afternoon. He was convinced you were going to turn me over to Voldemort," she added in disgust.

"Potter's a self-righteous prick," he hissed in sudden anger. How dare the four-eyed tosser accuse him of that, when Draco spent his sleepless nights trying to figure out how to keep Granger, as well as his parents, safe from the Dark Lord.

"I would never do that to you," he vowed. "And unlike your precious Potter, who seems to excel at using you as a human shield despite all of his supposed scruples, there's not much I would stop at to protect you."

"I know, Draco," she said, squeezing his hand again and giving him such a warm, trusting smile that he had to fight back the urge to kiss her, right there in the middle of the street. "But I'm not entirely incapable of protecting myself," she added.

He held his tongue, not wanting to remind her of how he had disarmed her in October, or how easily she could be physically overpowered without her wand. "Just . . . just be on your guard, Granger."

She nodded, a touch impatient at his overprotectiveness. "Do we have time to go into Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes?"

Turning his head in the direction in which she had gestured, Draco blinked twice at the bright purple storefront with its dizzying display windows. Now that he thought about it, there were some products sold inside that might be useful to him in his mission. He checked his watch. "Of course."

"We probably shouldn't go in together," she said, biting her lip as though worried he would be offended. In reality, he was relieved at her common sense.

"You go first, then," Draco offered graciously. "Though before you do, you may want to adjust your tie."

She looked down in confusion and then gasped at the Slytherin colors. Prudently, he danced out of range - he didn't think Granger would hex him over a harmless prank, but he knew from painful experience that she hit hard for such a petite girl.

"Malfoy, you - you sneaky snake!" she yelled.

He blew her a kiss from a safe distance. "You know it and you love it, princess!"

(x) (x) (x)

Draco ducked back into the Slytherin dungeon just before after classes concluded on a rainy Thursday afternoon. He needed to retrieve his notes on magical lifts and related Arithmancy calculations from their hidey hole in the boys' dormitory. As usual, he was planning to skip dinner in favor of spending a few hours working on the broken Vanishing Cabinet before his study session with Granger.

His hopes of getting through the common room unaccosted were dashed when Nott lazily waved to him from one of the winged chairs near the fire, where he was playing Exploding Snap with Crabbe. "How are things coming along, Draco? Cabinet nearly fixed?"

"Nearly, not that I answer to you," Draco sneered.

"Excellent," Nott hissed, even as his eyes darkened in disappointment at the prospect of Draco's success. "We could do with some excitement before the end of term."

Crabbe grunted in bloodthirsty agreement. "I want to kick the Weasel King's freckly arse."

Nott laughed evilly. "I'd rather fuck Mudblood Granger's tight arse."

Draco carefully concealed his reaction to Nott laying even a finger on Granger behind a typical Malfoy smirk. "I doubt you'll be involved," he drawled, glancing pointedly at the other boy's Unmarked left forearm. "You'll be tucked up safe here in the dungeons with the rest of the children."

"My father said I'm going to get Marked over the summer," Nott said defensively. "I can't wait for my first Dark revel," he continued, eyes sparkling in twisted anticipation.

"Bully for you," Draco said rudely. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll leave you two to your game. Unlike you, Nott, I've been entrusted with an important task to accomplish for our Lord." He smiled and gave them an airy wave in farewell, a smile that dissolved into a worried scowl as soon as he had safely exited the dungeons.

As a result of his visit to the Ministry, Draco was getting so close to a breakthrough with the cabinet that he practically could taste it. Rather than bringing him relief, that only brought the reality of the second half of his mission - and what it would mean for Granger - crashing down on him. There would be Death Eaters in the Castle, and not relatively harmless ones like himself and Professor Snape. Far too many of the Dark Lord's soldiers enjoyed hurting and killing Muggleborns and shared in Nott's sick fantasies towards Granger in particular. She would fight, and place herself in terrible danger, just like she had at the Department of Mysteries, but he was damned if he knew how to stop her. Probably he was damned regardless, he thought miserably.

Vomit rose up in his throat and he ducked into a convenient bathroom to retch into the sink. With a shaking hand, Draco drew water from the tap to rinse out his mouth, refusing to look at himself in the mirror. He tried to hold back - Malfoy men didn't cry - but then his shoulders were trembling and tears were leaking from his eyes as he was overwhelmed at the thought of what he had to do.

Dimly, he was aware of a female voice consoling him. "Don't - tell me what's wrong. I can help you." Draco was reminded of his mother, who had so often spoken words like that during his childhood. But his mum couldn't ever help him or save him, not from his father and certainly not from the Dark Lord. Draco needed to save _her_.

"No one can help me," he said bitterly, swiping the traitorous tears from his cheeks. He would have to help himself. Fixing the Vanishing Cabinet would save his mother's life, and as for Granger . . .

His whole body started shaking. The Death Eaters would tear her apart. He adored the fiery innocence he saw in her eyes, and knew with a sickening certainty the sorts of things that would be done to her to quench that, to break her.

"I can't do it . . . I can't . . . . It won't work . . . unless I do it soon . . . " Draco gasped and gulped, feeling sickened once again.

Instinct alerted him to look up in the cracked mirror. Potter's ugly, spectacled face was reflected behind him, mouth gaping open. Dark rage coursed through Draco's body as he wheeled around, drawing his wand. He knew it was irrational, but all that he could think was that this was Potter's fault. If the Chosen Git had properly defeated the Dark Lord as an infant, or if he didn't rely on Granger's brains and courage to save his sorry arse at every turn, things might be different.

His first hex missed by inches as Potter flung himself to one side. Draco easily blocked the silent jinx Scarhead sent back and returned the favor with a _Reducto _that destroyed the bin behind him. Potter's responding hex - a nasty one - went wide of Draco, ricocheting off the tiled wall to smash into a cistern next to the ghost, soaking Draco's shirt. She was screaming loudly at both boys to stop, not that either heeded her.

The stupid, spectacled bastard slipped and skidded on the flooded floor, evading Draco's _Stupefy_. His green eyes widened at Draco's Dark Mark, visible under his wet and now-transparent white Oxford shirt. "Knew you were a Death Eater," Potter gasped. "Told Hermione so - you're scum, Malfoy!" he spat.

Draco's face contorted in hatred. _Who are you to be so self-righteous, Potter? What lines would you cross to save the ones you loved?_ he thought viciously. One had to mean the Unforgivable Curses, and this one was backed up by more than five yeas of mutual hatred. "_Cruci_ \- "

"SECTUMSEMPRA!" Potter screamed, with a wild wave of his wand.

Draco felt a burning slash, running on the diagonal from the right side of his chest up to his left cheek. The burning faded to a liquid warmth as blood spurted from the wound. He grabbed at his chest, trying to staunch the bleeding, while Potter gibbered uselessly, kneeling beside him. _Hermione would know what to do_, Draco thought as his vision dimmed, wishing she was there. "He- "

"Silence, Draco. Conserve your strength," his godfather urged, his concerned face replacing Potter's terrified one as Professor Snape roughly pushed the dark-haired boy away. Draco obeyed, clamping his lips shut and closing his eyes as his godfather began a lullaby-like incantation to save his life.

(x) (x) (x)

"I need to borrow your invisibility cloak and the Marauders' Map," Hermione told Harry in a tone that brooked no argument.

Still cowed from her angry lecture about his stupidity in using an unknown spell from the Half-Blood Prince to curse Malfoy, Harry meekly fetched the cloak and map from his bedroom, not daring to ask what she wanted them for or where she was going.

When she reached the hospital wing, Pansy was perched on Malfoy's bed, alternating between commiserating with "Drakey" over his injuries and fuming over the unfairness that Harry Potter could practically commit murder and get away with a handful of detentions. "I've gotten worse just for hexing Hufflepuffs," she shrilly complained.

"Pansy, please. You're making my headache worse," Malfoy said in a pained voice.

"Oh, Drakey! I'm so sorry!" she apologized immediately. Her voice dropped suggestively as she trailed her fingers down his chest. "Is there anything - anything _at all_ \- I can do to make you feel better?"

Hermione, hidden under Harry's invisibility cloak, dug her nails into her palms, fighting back an unexpected surge of jealousy.

"Yeah, you can bugger off back to the dungeons, Pans," Malfoy suggested. "After being gutted by Potty, I'm not in the mood to be pawed by you."

Under the cloak, Hermione smiled and pressed back against the wall as the Slytherin witch flounced past. She waited before the sound of Pansy's high heels stomping away had faded before making her way to Malfoy's hospital bed. He looked as pale as new milk lying there, with black circles under his tightly closed eyes and a pained set to his mouth. Even with the speed of magical healing, a faint pink line marred one side of his face. Lower down, where it continued down onto his chest, the scar was a darker red and carved more deeply. Gingerly, she sat down beside him, still concealed by the cloak.

"What part of 'bugger off' don't you understand, Pansy?" he growled weakly, eyes shut.

"It's not Pansy. It's me," she said softly.

"Granger?" His eyes snapped open, wide and incredulous. He looked around and then slumped back against the pillow in disappointment. "Just a dream."

"No, I'm right here," she confirmed, pulling the cloak off and touching his shoulder lightly.

"I can't believe you came," he whispered. "After what I did . . . "

"After what? After you and Harry got into a stupid duel and both used illegal, Dark curses on one another? You're both lucky you aren't in Azkaban." Hermione huffed. "Or even worse, expelled!" She wasn't entirely joking. Hogwarts was a refuge that kept both boys safe from Voldemort.

"That's my girl," Malfoy smiled up at her, a bit muzzily. "Expulsion a fate worse than death, or at least Dementors."

Hermione gently swept his white-blond hair off his forehead. Based on his unusually dilated pupils, she deduced Madam Pomfrey had him on some strong painkillers. As his expression relaxed, she could tell they were finally starting to take effect.

"Sleep with me?" he suggested, fluffing his pillow in a welcoming gesture.

Hermione's eyes grew round. Since she had discovered his Dark Mark, her fooling around with Malfoy had been strictly above the waist. As tempting as it was for her to rethink that policy - and she had, many a time, when Malfoy was kissing and caressing her - she was taken aback at such a bold request.

Not like that," he clarified, easily reading her expression, a roguish grin crossing his face despite the obvious amount of pain he still was in. "I'm not in any condition to sleep with you in _that way_ tonight. I do have a reputation to maintain, after all. Just stay with me until I fall asleep."

The pleading look in his grey eyes was enough reason for her to slide off her shoes and slip into the hospital bed with Malfoy curled around her back. Hermione made sure the invisibility cloak was securely tucked around her in case Madam Pomfrey came over to check on her patient, even though Malfoy complained it was strange to be able to feel her but not see her.

Then, as the painkillers kicked in, he stopped complaining and began babbling. "You smell nice," he murmured against her skin, twining the fingers of one hand through her curls. His other hand pushed up her shirt so he could rest his palm flat against her stomach. "Your skin feels soft, too." He sighed in contentment. "I like cuddling with you, Hermione."

He definitely was loopy from the pain potions, she thought. Still, it was rather pleasant to act as Draco Malfoy's personal teddy bear. He had one more confession to make before drifting off to sleep, said so softly that Hermione wasn't sure she had heard him correctly.

"Thank you for keeping my nightmares away."

(x) (x) (x)

It was only two days after his release from the Hospital Wing when Draco received an encoded message from his father. The Dark Lord was growing impatient as the school year drew near its end. Apparently, nearly being murdered by Potter was no excuse for delay. Draco was told, in no uncertain terms, to test the Vanishing Cabinet - specifically whether passage to and from Borgin and Burkes was survivable by a living creature. To incentivize him, he also was ordered to use his beloved owl, Purus.

Now, in the Room of Hidden Things, Draco stared up at the imposing black and gold cabinet, more than twice his own height. Fearfully, he watched the magical energies shimmer and crackle across its onyx surface. Purus hooted nervously from his perch atop the chipped bust of an ugly warlock, incongruously adorned with a sapphire tiara. "It'll be alright," he reassured the eagle owl in a soft voice.

Draco firmly told himself that it would be. He had put the information acquired at the Ministry from the chatty Cattermole to good use, aided by his own Arithmancy calculations as triple-checked by Granger. She, of course, had no clue that the calculations were for a Vanishing Cabinet linking Hogwarts Castle to the outside world, but instead thought they were for a magical lift in his family's Manor in Wiltshire.

Draco left off stroking his familiar's soft neck feathers in order to open the Vanishing Cabinet. "Hop in, boy," he directed his owl.

Purus shivered in alarm at the dark interior, but the well-trained bird obeyed. Draco shut the door, ignoring the plaintive hooting, and raised his wand. "_Harmonia Nectere Passus_," he chanted.

It was an incantation specific to the Hogwarts cabinet, adopted by some long-dead headmaster to maintain the security of the school. The Vanishing Cabinet quite simply would not work in the absence of harmony and united effort by students or professors from two or more different Houses - the interhouse unity bollocks that Dumbledore always was preaching. Those conditions were necessary for any living thing to be granted safe passage through the linked cabinets. Graham Montague had survived being stuffed into the Vanishing Cabinet by the Weasley twins because the cabinet's magic had misinterpreted that as an attempt at cooperation - albeit a piss-poor one - between a Slytherin and two Gryffindors.

Draco knew now he never could have fixed the linked cabinets alone, or even with the help of Professor Snape, a fellow Slytherin. As the Vanishing Cabinet's ominous rumbling faded to silence, with Purus trapped inside, Draco crossed his fingers and hoped that Granger's unwitting assistance would be enough.

A few minutes later, the Cabinet began to rumble once more, indicating an arrival from its twin at Borgin and Burkes. With trembling hands, he opened the door to the Vanishing Cabinet. Purus fluttered out, every feather in place but nonetheless hooting in annoyance.

"Oh, thank Merlin and all the Founders!" Draco breathed, so relieved that his familiar had survived that he willingly included even Godric Gryffindor in his heartfelt expression of gratitude. He noticed a small slip of paper on the cabinet's floor. Borgin had left a receipt from his shop, bearing today's date, as proof that Purus had safely travelled from Hogwarts to Knockturn Alley and back in the space of a few minutes, bypassing the castle's formidable wards.

Against all odds, and with the help of Hermione Granger, Draco had succeeded. He had fixed the Vanishing Cabinet.

**A/N: ****Most of the lines in the Sectumsempra scene are from HBP. The incantation for the Vanishing Cabinet is from the movie. Interestingly, I'm not playing that fast and loose with the translation.**


	10. Chapter 10: June 1997 (part 1)

**_June 1997_**

A quiet knock interrupted Severus Snape's reverie as he stared into the flames dancing in the fireplace in his private quarters. This late on a Saturday evening, well after curfew, it could only be one of his fellow teachers. He hoped it was Minerva, coming to share a dram of Firewhiskey, but knew it was more probably the headmaster, come to pull the strings on his favorite puppet.

"Come in," Severus called, not bothering to mask the irritation in his voice. He liked a game of chess as much as the next wizard, but abhorred Dumbledore's penchant for using real people as his pawns.

Instead of the stooped, white-bearded headmaster, his white-blond godson was standing stiffly at the door, a Galleon clutched in one hand. "He's summoned us both," Draco announced without preamble.

Severus nodded and placed a marker in his book. "To the Manor? I'll Apparate us both as soon as we get outside the castle wards." Draco knew how to Apparate, but he was unlicensed and underage at least for a few more days, and thus at risk of being Traced. Voldemort's supporters controlled some key departments at the Ministry, but not all.

"No, he wants us at the Three Broomsticks. Immediately," Draco added, holding out the coin in his hand so Severus could read the message.

"A Protean Charm? That's NEWT-level. Did you do that yourself, or is this another service provided to you by Miss Granger?" the professor inquired slyly. His godson had not been forthcoming with him ever since taking the Dark Mark, including on the subject of the curly-haired Gryffindor witch, but Severus hoped that baiting the younger wizard might yield some information.

"I did it myself, without the Mudblood's help," Draco answered curtly.

"Good," Severus praised, referring to the delivery as well as the substance of his godson's response. Glancing at Draco out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the younger wizard's face was impassive and his grey eyes were cold. He looked every inch the ruthless young Death Eater, and Severus honestly could not tell if this was a mask or what his godson really had become. "Do you know why we are being summoned?" he asked, feigning casualness.

Draco shrugged. "I imagine it's because I fixed the Vanishing Cabinet and the Dark Lord wishes to instruct us on the next part of my mission."

With long-legged strides, the two men proceeded in silence to one of the passages leading to Hogsmeade, directly underneath the Three Broomsticks. Far from being a secret, this passageway was known to - and often used by - Argus Filch. In less than a quarter-hour, Severus was climbing a steep set of wooden stairs from the pub's cellar and opening a concealed door into the back bar, Draco at his heels.

His black eyes surveyed the normally cheery pub. Voldemort dominated the center of the shadowy room, sitting on a wooden chair that someone had Transfigured to resemble a throne. Bellatrix Lestrange and the Carrow siblings were perched on the wooden bar, while Fenrir Greyback slouched against the wall in a darkened corner, the werewolf's yellow eyes glowing with an unnatural light. Yaxley, Rowle and Gibbon were seated at a table with several mugs of ale in front of them.

Draco and Severus prostrated themselves on the wooden floor of the Three Broomsticks, disregarding the ingrained dirt and smell of stale, spilled alcohol to show the abject respect their master demanded. Surrounding them, Severus could see the shoes and boots belonging to the other Death Eaters. The back of his neck prickled at being in such a vulnerable position among his fellows.

"You both may rise," the Dark Lord hissed, echoed a beat later by Nagini as the snake slithered around them. With more than two decades of experience in following Voldemort's commands and gauging the snake-faced wizard's moods, Severus stood to his full height immediately. Draco rose to his knees and then, with an impatient gesture from Voldemort, to his feet.

"I am pleased," Voldemort stated, though he looked anything but. "For the first time in quite a long while, a Malfoy has exceeded my expectations."

"It's the Black blood in him," Bellatrix crooned, undulating over from her perch on the bar to run her fingernails down Draco's arm and press a kiss to his cheek. "You've done well, darling, just as I would hope for a nephew of mine."

"I live to serve you, my Lord, as do my parents," Draco said earnestly, utterly ignoring his mad aunt.

"Yes, you do, Draco. Your family would do well to remember that," Voldemort said in a silky-voiced threat.

"Young Draco has managed to fix the Vanishing Cabinet that resides within Hogwarts," the Dark Lord announced. "Borgin has its twin in his shop, so we now have the means to access the castle and take Dumbledore unawares. I called you here tonight to put the final touches on those plans."

Bellatrix beamed at Draco, but the remaining Death Eaters looked skeptical. Severus, realizing he was not the subject of the Dark Lord's interest, effaced himself to stand quietly against the wall.

"Begging your pardon, my lord," Gibbon asked subserviently, "but how do we know the cabinet is fixed properly? That's quite a job for a boy."

"On my orders, Draco tested the Vanishing Cabinet using his familiar, and the creature survived," Voldemort stated. "However, I do wish to know more about how he accomplished this first part of his task."

With no further warning, he turned his red eyes from Gibbon onto Draco and raised his wand. "_Legilemens_," he hissed.

Draco's eyes widened in alarm and he blindly clutched at a wooden table behind him, seeking support against the Dark Lord's mental onslaught. Severus, through long practice, watched with a blank face, even as he prayed desperately that his godson's Occlumency would be sufficient. Draco could not hope to keep the Dark Lord out, but he might able to deflect his master from anything that would get him tortured or killed.

After a few excruciatingly long minutes, Voldemort withdrew from the boy's mind. "You used Potter's Mudblood to help you fix the cabinet," he stated, red eyes gleaming.

"Yes, my lord," Draco dipped his head. He looked up, his eyes glinting silver. "I _used_ her," he emphasized.

Voldemort nevertheless raised his wand. Severus stepped forward, drawing those vicious red eyes away from Draco. "My lord, the boy was working with Miss Granger on my advice. Dumbledore, in his foolishness, wanted the girl to tutor Draco, and he took advantage of her undeniable intelligence to assist your cause."

"What a delicious irony," Voldemort observed as he lowered his wand.

"Yes, my lord," Draco agreed, his face impassive and posture submissive.

Severus relaxed minutely, hoping his intervention had succeeded, but that hope was premature.

"You wish to use the Mudblood in other ways, don't you, Draco?" the Dark Lord asked in a dangerous voice. "That's what I saw in your mind. You've kissed her dirty mouth and allowed her unclean hands to touch you, have you not?"

"Yes, my lord," Draco confessed, cheeks red with shame.

"Blood traitor!" Bellatrix shrieked. "_Cruc_-"

Voldemort wandlessly silenced her with a wave of his hand. Glancing around the room, Severus saw the other Death Eaters were listening avidly. Rowle even licked his lips.

"And you have many, many impure thoughts about Potter's Mudblood," Voldemort continued. "You think about tumbling her in any number of broom closets and classrooms around the castle, and you even fantasize about having the filthy creature naked in your bed. Isn't that right, Draco?"

Draco nodded mutely, his face now pale with fear.

Voldemort held his hand up to where his ear should be. "I didn't hear you," he sing-songed.

"Yes, my lord," the blond boy whispered.

Once more, Severus stepped forward. "My lord, he is sixteen. Please believe me when I say that these sorts of prurient thoughts are quite the norm among the hormonal adolescents I am cursed to teach."

The Dark Lord began to laugh, a high-pitched sinister sound. "I would not punish Draco for thinking about a Mudblood in that way. I would not even punish him for acting on those urges. As you know, Severus, I am not averse to my loyal followers keeping pets, providing they are well-trained. I would have allowed you the Evans girl, but she had to go and sacrifice herself for her pestilential son."

"You are most generous, my lord," the sallow-skinned professor said tonelessly.

Voldemort continued, an evil smile stretching his lipless mouth. "I _will _punish Draco, however, for his misguided self-restraint, for refraining from acting on his base desires because he respects the Mudblood's boundaries and cares about her feelings."

The other Death Eaters, except for Severus and the silenced Bellatrix, laughed like hyenas at the absurdity of respecting the feelings of a Muggleborn witch.

"You see, Draco," Voldemort advised in a sickening parody of a fatherly manner, "attractive little Mudbloods have their uses, on their knees or on their backs. Use Potter's Mudblood - _your_ Mudblood - properly and you may keep her. Otherwise, one or more of my other loyal followers will be most eager to claim her."

Draco swallowed hard and bowed. "Yes, my lord. I understand, my lord. Thank you, my lord."

The Dark Lord waved a negligent hand, simultaneously brushing off the young Death Eater's thanks and releasing the spell that held Bellatrix silent. "Now, Bella, I'll give you five minutes to do your worst."

Bellatrix danced forward, wand raised and with a wicked smile on her face. Severus closed his eyes and then opened them, bracing himself to once again stand silently by while Draco was tortured.

(x) (x) (x)

"Tip your head back and swallow," his godfather ordered, a fearful note hiding under the command. Draco tried to obey, but his head lolled to one side and the potion dribbled out of his mouth. Professor Snape swore softly and then steadied the nape of Draco's neck with one hand, slowly pouring the liquid down his throat.

Grey eyes fluttered open and Draco coughed, absently noting the resulting speckles of blood on his hand. "Where?" he gasped.

"Back at the castle, in my chambers," Professor Snape replied. "We're alone," he added, responding to a second question that Draco was too weak to voice. "Greyback and Rowle did not dare to come into Hogwarts."

"Just through the passageway that connects the castle to the Three Broomsticks," Draco said quietly. The two adult Death Eaters had dragged him along between them, trading obscene fantasies about what they would like to do to Granger, interspersed with graphic suggestions for Draco, as he had drifted in and out of consciousness.

"Drink this one now, followed by this one," the professor directed, handing him one vial that steamed and another that smoked. "There is no shame in having respect and affection for a Muggleborn witch," the dark-haired man said, so softly and wistfully that Draco strained to hear him.

"I will escort you back to the Slytherin dungeons," Professor Snape stated in his normal voice. "Should we see anyone, you were taken ill and came to me for assistance because you were too weak to make it to the infirmary."

Draco nodded and allowed his godfather to support him on the short walk to his dormitory. "I can make it on my own from here," he said, once they were in the Slytherin common room.

"As you will. Try to get some sleep, let your body heal," Professor Snape instructed.

"Yes, sir," Draco acknowledged, despite knowing he would get only a few hours of sleep before his regular meeting with Granger, early on Sunday morning. After what had happened at the Three Broomsticks, he _needed_ to see her. Among other things, he had a strong suspicion as to who the 'Evans girl' was, but Granger could confirm it.

"Draco." Professor Snape stared intently into his eyes, but made no attempt to read his mind. "If it so happens that you need access to the headmaster's office as part of your mission, the current password is 'cockroach cluster.' Use it mindfully."

Draco nodded slowly, fully understanding the message that his godfather was conveying, but not entirely certain that he could be trusted. Professor Snape might be a double agent, or this could be a test of his loyalty to the Dark Lord. He responded with caution. "Thank you, Uncle Sev. I will indeed be mindful."

(x) (x) (x)

The Gryffindor common room was deserted early on the Sunday morning after the championship Quidditch match, with nearly everyone sleeping in after a victory party that had lasted long into the night. No one saw Hermione as she climbed through the portrait hole on her way to meet with Malfoy.

She recognized him walking towards their classroom from the opposite end of the corridor, his blond hair obvious even from a distance. Malfoy saw her at the same moment and paused to hold the classroom door open for her.

"I apologize," he began formally. "I was running late and forgot to stop by the kitchens to pick up our breakfast."

"Don't worry about it," Hermione shrugged, seating herself on top of a desk. She had eaten a pumpkin pasty late last night at the Gryffindor celebration and wasn't hungry. "How're you feeling?"

"Well enough," Malfoy answered, with a polite - if blatant - lie. In the comparatively bright light of the classroom, he looked wretched. He gingerly settled himself on the desk next to hers, as though his entire body ached. Hermione realized that he had only been released from the infirmary yesterday, spending three days there recovering from the aftereffects of the curse Harry had hit him with.

"You look ill," she stated bluntly. "And you're shaking." Hermione held a hand to his forehead. "You're not feverish, but I still think you should be in bed."

"Always so bossy," Malfoy murmured. "And so eager to get me in bed."

"Prat! You know I mean your own bed, to sleep."

He gave her a tiny smile and rested his head against her shoulder. "I know what you meant, and I think you're right, but I didn't want to stand you up."

"You're rather sweet when you aren't feeling well," Hermione observed, stroking his baby-fine fringe back from his forehead as he closed his eyes.

His grey eyes popped open and he glared at her. "Never use that word in connection with me outside this room, witch," he mock-growled. "Malfoys are _never_ sweet."

"Oh, I beg to differ, sweetie," Hermione teased, continuing to pet his hair as he replaced his head on her shoulder.

"Granger, do you know of any Muggleborn witches with the last name of Evans?" Malfoy mumbled against her shirt.

Her hand stilled. "Harry's mum was Lily Evans. Why do you want to know?"

"I heard her mentioned in passing, that's all."

Hermione had no way of judging with his face hidden, buried against her neck, but she suspected that wasn't that whole story. "Is there anything else you want to know about her?"

Draco looked up, his grey eyes a stark contrast to his red-rimmed eyelids. "How did she die? I mean, I know it was an _Avada_, but wasn't Dumbledore protecting the Potters?"

"He was. He cast a Fidelius Charm to hide them, but their secret keeper gave the location to Voldemort," Hermione replied. Her eyes flickered to his left arm. "You probably know him - Peter Pettigrew?"

"He's a sniveling rat," Draco opined.

"Too right," Hermione agreed. She noticed him shaking again. "Let's get you back to your dormitory," she suggested. "I think you may be coming down with the flu."

Malfoy made no protest, which she took as further evidence that he really was feeling ill. They walked together to the moving staircases, where Hermione hesitated. "Should I walk you down?" she asked. "Just in case you get light-headed or something."

He waved her off. "I'll be fine, Granger. See you Thursday."

"Only if you're feeling better," she said sternly.

"I guarantee I will be." Malfoy gave a quick look around to make sure they were unobserved and planted a soft kiss on her lips over her protest about germs. "I swear it's not anything contagious," he grinned, giving her a farewell wave as he descended on the moving staircase, exiting at the third floor instead of continuing to the dungeons.

(x) (x) (x)

"Albus, one of my descendants is coming to see you," Phineas Nigellus Black informed the current headmaster of Hogwarts. "He's outside your tower now."

"Well, I'm afraid that young Mister Malfoy won't be able to come up without the password," Albus Dumbledore said mildly.

Phineas smirked at him from within the confines of his portrait frame. "Oh, Draco's a clever one. He knows your password."

Indeed, Dumbledore could hear the faint grinding of the moving stone spiral staircase. He suppressed a pained grimace in favor of his trademark wise smile and twinkling eyes. The boy was a wild card, and Dumbledore could only hope this was not going to be another half-baked assassination attempt. The headmaster had already determined Severus needed to kill him in front of as many witnesses as possible to cement the Potions professor's status as Voldemort's most trusted Death Eater.

"Ah, Mister Malfoy! What a pleasant surprise," Dumbledore lied genially. "What brings you to my office at half-eight on a Sunday morning?"

The boy looked haunted, with a sickly pallor and dark circles under his eyes. Dumbledore also noticed that he was shaking slightly, not from fear of his headmaster, but with the aftershocks of the Cruciatus Curse. With trembling hands, Draco unbuttoned the cuff to his uniform shirt and shoved the sleeve up his arm to reveal the Dark Mark.

"I need your help, sir, for my mother and me."

"You wish to join the Light?" Dumbledore asked, curiously. The Order of the Phoenix could always use another spy.

The Slytherin boy shook his head. "Honestly, no. But I don't want to be a Death Eater any longer. There are things the Dark Lord demands that I don't think I can bring myself to do."

"You are not a killer," Dumbledore agreed.

"I'll have to be, if you won't help me," Draco said, looking pained. "Among other evil things."

The headmaster regarded him thoughtfully over his half-moon spectacles and decided that delay was the best strategy. He had every intention of helping Draco Malfoy at the right moment, but his premature defection would upset Dumbledore's carefully laid plans.

"It's not a decision I can make on my own, Draco. I'll need to consult the other senior members of the Order of the Phoenix, reach a consensus on the best way to proceed to protect you and your mother. Perhaps a Fidelius charm may work, but there's the tricky question of a secret keeper," Dumbledore mused, not perceiving the skepticism that crossed the young wizard's face. "I will contact you within a week."

Draco looked stricken. "But . . . but that may be too late, Professor Dumbledore."

"I think not, my dear boy," the headmaster assured him, with all the hubris of a powerful wizard who had lived for well over a century. "If you haven't managed to kill me all year, I doubt you'll succeed in the next several days."

(x) (x) (x)

Four days later, in the Slytherin dungeons, Draco methodically packed his black dragonhide satchel. His hands remained steady even as his mind raced. One large, chilled bottle of champagne nestled next to a pair of crystal glasses and a small glass flask, the latter wrapped carefully in silk. The champagne had arrived just that morning, sent by his mother at his express request and hidden amongst his birthday presents. His father's birthday greetings had been much less welcome. Lucius had sent a coded communication advising Draco that Death Eaters would raid Hogwarts tonight.

Time had run out. He had tried desperately to think of another way of reconciling the Dark Lord's threats and ultimatums, but to no avail. It was like an arithmancy problem. The numeric inputs were set: three is greater than one; 204 months is longer than six months. The other factors did not lend themselves to calculation: maternal affection and filial respect versus some ephemeral combination of lust and liking. Draco had always excelled with numbers and cold logic, but try as he might, he could come up with no better solution.

Preparations complete, Draco lifted the bag over his shoulder and pivoted to exit the dungeon dormitory, quickly making his way to neutral ground, the fourth floor classroom midway between his dorm and the Gryffindor tower. The door to the classroom was ajar and Granger was already inside, sitting in one of the castle's window seats with her knees pulled up to her chest, watching an evening thunderstorm roll in over the Scottish countryside.

When she didn't look around at his entrance, Draco gave in to a momentary, boyish temptation to sneak up and startle her. He cast a quick silencing charm, soundlessly shut the door, and walked quietly across the room, aided by the rumble of thunder audible even through the stone walls. As he crept closer, he could see his indistinct form reflected against the windowpane, reminding him uneasily of the Foe Glass in his father's study.

His efforts were all for naught. When he was less than a foot away, Granger spun around to face him with a welcoming smile. "'By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes,'" she quoted.

"Too right," he murmured in agreement, tipping up her chin for a kiss. Before he could deepen it, she broke away and shivered at a particularly loud clap of thunder.

"Scared of a little storm, Miss Gryffindor?" Draco's tone was teasing, but not malicious as it would have been earlier in the year; he rubbed her back in a vaguely comforting way even as he spoke.

Granger shook her head, clearly in no mood to be teased. "I like storms, but I feel like this one is bringing something terrible with it."

For one stomach-clenching moment, Draco wondered if she had somehow guessed. Then he realized that Granger was leaning trustingly into his hand as he drew circles between her shoulder blades. If she knew, or even suspected, she already would have hexed him unconscious and summoned the Aurors. Still, even though there was no chance that his little Muggleborn had even a drop of Seer's blood, her instincts were sharp, and a distraction was warranted.

He dropped into the window seat next to Granger, his thigh grazing hers, and kissed her, hard. She squeaked in surprise at his aggressiveness and Draco smirked inwardly, at having managed to startle her after all. Just as the kiss was getting interesting, Draco felt two surprisingly strong hands on his chest, resolutely pushing him away. Granger wrenched her mouth away from his, gasping, "Business before pleasure, Malfoy."

He rolled his eyes at the brunette witch. "You always say that, Granger."

She merely looked at him in silence, one foot tapping with impatience, until he sighed. "My term project on magical lifts is complete. _And _Professor Vector told me I received full marks on our last Arithmancy quiz. Now can we get on with snogging?"

"You already finished your term project? That's excellent, Malfoy!" Granger enthused. "You deserve to earn an 'O,' with all the hard work you've put in."

"Oh, I'm sure I'll have least exceeded expectations," Draco said with irony. The Dark Lord had never expected him to succeed in fixing the Vanishing Cabinet.

"Now, can we celebrate?" he asked. Draco reached for his brilliant little witch, to pull her close, but she stood up and danced out of reach.

"I would like to practice my Occlumency before we do anything else," she primly insisted, arms crossed.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Granger, I've taught you everything I can. It's all practice on your own from here."

"What a pity," she smirked. "I had a naughty fantasy about you that I thought you would rather enjoy prying out of my mind. A birthday present from me to you."

He smirked back, pulling his wand from his pocket and pointing it between her eyes. "Well, if that's the case . . . _Legilemens_."

She was passionately kissing Viktor Krum, holding the Bulgarian Seeker's jaw between both hands as her tongue delved into his mouth. Krum's large hands were cupping and squeezing her pert arse. Draco found himself growling deep in his throat with jealousy and frustration, unable to push further into her mind, caught up as he was in wondering if this was a real memory or something Granger had concocted.

In the thoughts she was showing him, his witch moaned and began unbuttoning Krum's white Oxford shirt. _Gotcha, Granger_, Draco thought triumphantly, as he realized the incongruity of a Durmstrang student in a Hogwarts uniform. He pushed harder at her mental barriers, and Krum was replaced by the Weasel King.

Draco's initial flare of jealousy was replaced by amusement. He knew that Granger had never really kissed the ginger. Her fantasy Ron was practically eating her face, showing the same lack of decorum he displayed at mealtime in the Hogwarts dining hall. Draco pictured how _he_ kissed Granger, how she liked it when he lightly nibbled at her lower lip, and the gangly redhead's image in her mind began to shift almost immediately.

Instead of his own white-blond hair, her fantasy Weasley's hair stayed the same shade, but began to lengthen. The amount of freckles on the face stayed the same, but the face - and to Draco's delight, the body - morphed into that of Ginny Weasley. He shifted on the window seat as his cock began to stiffen. Granger presenting thoughts of herself kissing other males was disgusting, but Granger snogging a girl was _hot_. Unconsciously, he leaned forward for a better view as Granger began unbuttoning the She-Weasel's shirt, curious to see if the redhead's tits were as freckled as her face.

Taking advantage of his distraction, Granger threw him out of her mind and, with a thump, out of the window seat. He blinked up at her from the floor, disoriented, and she began to laugh. "It worked!" she crowed. Before he could get angry, she grabbed his Slytherin tie and pulled him up and in for an open-mouthed kiss. "Now try again," she whispered into his ear. "This time, I won't try to keep you out."

"_Legilemens_," Draco repeated, for the second time in mere minutes. As promised, Granger let him into her mind immediately. In the fantasy she had granted him access to, she was moaning into his mouth as they kissed, her fingers busily undoing the buttons of his shirt. She ran her hands along his exposed chest, tracing his nipples with a delicate finger, and then repeated the action with the tip of her tongue as her hands trailed lower, one hand gently squeezing his erection while the other worked to unbuckle and unzip him. She shoved his trousers and boxers down to his ankles and dropped to her knees, looking up at him with expectant brown eyes. "Do you want me to suck you?" Granger asked in her imagination and his mind.

"Oh, please, Merlin - yes!" Draco answered aloud.

"Really?" she asked, breaking off their mental connection.

He placed her hand over his groin, so she could appreciate how hard he was. "Really," he confirmed, laughing. "And they call you the brightest witch of our age?"

Slowly, Granger stood up from the window seat. "I've never done this before," she confessed.

His cock twitched at her admission. "I'll tell you what I like," he said hoarsely, standing up to face her as she undid his shirt. He stopped her before she could begin to lick and kiss her way southward.

"Take off your shirt," he told her. Granger had been fully clothed in the mental images she had shown him, but Draco wanted to see her topless while her curly head bobbed on his dick. She unbuttoned her white cotton uniform blouse and shrugged it off, revealing a blue bra with pink flowers.

"That's pretty, but it needs to go," he commented, unclasping the bra and flinging it to the floor. Draco palmed her breasts, the perfect size for his hands, using his thumbs the tease her nipples into hard peaks as she undid his belt and trousers. Then, just like in her fantasy, she knelt before him, her brown eyes trusting as she looked to him for instruction. He cast a quick cushioning charm on the stone floor for her comfort before telling Granger exactly what he wanted her to do.

"Start by swirling your tongue around the head. That's the most sensitive part." Granger did as he directed. "Now lick me, from the base to the tip." Draco's eyes fluttered shut in pleasure at the sensation of her tongue laving his length.

"Open your mouth, take in as much as you can." He opened his eyes and watched under his eyelashes as her hot little mouth partially engulfed his cock. "Now suck me while moving your head up and down."

Granger was a quick study and - as always - eager to learn. It did not take long before she had him leaning back onto the window seat, clutching the cushion to avoid the temptation of fisting his hands in her hair and pulling her deeper onto his cock. Unlike Pansy and a couple of the other Slytherin girls, Granger did have a gag reflex, but she was determined to take him as far back into her throat as she could. With each pass, she managed to go a little bit deeper and suck just a bit harder. "Such a perfect little cocksucker," he moaned, just managing to stay coherent.

He wondered if Granger realized how arousing he found it to have her in this position, and if she truly appreciated the power dynamics of Harry Potter's Muggleborn best friend on her knees, servicing a Death Eater. As she traced an intricate pattern on the underside of his prick and raised her eyes to gauge his reaction, Draco decided the witch knew exactly what she was doing. Inexperienced she might be - though he was far from complaining about the wicked things she was doing with her tongue - but Granger was never stupid.

"Keep doing that and I'm going to cum in your mouth," he said, giving fair warning.

When she redoubled her efforts, he took that as a silent form of consent. Finally giving into temptation, he buried his hands in her wild hair and jerked his hips forward only twice before he climaxed. Granger's eyes widened as he held her in place, watching the muscles in her throat contract as she swallowed. When he released her hair, she sat back on the magically cushioned stone floor, unconsciously swiping at her mouth with the back of her hand.

"I take it I don't taste as good as I look?" he asked as he sank down next to her, propping himself against the wall in his happy, satiated state.

"Hardly," she agreed, then backpedaled at how rude that sounded. "It's not terrible, just salty and sort of bitter."

He stroked her unruly hair. "Thank you - that was by far the best birthday present I've gotten."

"You're welcome," she grinned, looking very pleased with herself. "What else could I get for the boy who has everything?"

"Oh, I can think of a few things," Draco smirked. He summoned his bag with a silent _Accio_, removing the glasses and champagne and uncorking the bottle with a simple but showy spell. He handed the first glass to her. "Estate bottled, from the Malfoy vineyards in Montagne de Reims. Drink up," he urged. "It will take the aftertaste out of your mouth."

"You brought champagne? What are we celebrating?" Granger asked as she took a delicate sip of the bubbly.

"My birthday, successful completion of our term projects, an unexpectedly brilliant partnership with my tutor in Arithmancy," Draco shrugged. "Take your pick."

"I like the last," Granger smiled, taking a larger sip. "This is really nice."

Draco clinked his glass against hers with a predatory smile, taking only a minute sip for himself. Granger's glass was half-empty, and there was an enticing flush to her cheeks as the champagne began to take effect. "Or maybe I'm just plying you with champagne in hopes of getting into your knickers," Draco winked, even though he was very much in earnest.

"Er, I probably should find my shirt," she said with embarrassment at her half-naked state.

"Why bother?" Draco asked lazily. "I'll just strip it off you again."

Her blush deepened. "Would you like to take anything else off?" she asked, softly.

"Everything," he answered, pushing her back so she was lying on the floor. He started with her shoes and socks, stroking and massaging her feet and ankles and moving up her calves.

"That feels lovely," she murmured, her eyes half-closed.

"I want to make you feel good," Draco said with sincerity. "Just like you did for me." He took off his own shirt and lay next to her, kissing as their bare chests rubbed together. From the hardness of her nipples and the sounds she made as he kissed his way down her neck to her collarbone, he could tell Granger was highly aroused. When he reached around her waist to unbutton her uniform skirt, she instinctively raised her hips, grinding against his rapidly returning erection and making it easier for him to slide the skirt down her legs. To distract her, he suckled and nipped at her breasts as he hooked his fingers into the sides of her cotton bikini knickers. Granger's brown eyes shot open in alarm.

"May I?" he asked in a soft voice.

With obvious trepidation, she nodded. Draco dragged her knickers down and off before she could change her mind. With one hand on each toned thigh, he spread her legs. "So pretty and pink," he said, looking up from between her legs to her flushed face. Granger looked torn between arousal and embarrassment, wanton and innocent at the same time.

Draco swirled two fingers in his nearly full champagne flute. "Suck them," he directed, bringing them to Granger's lips. He repeated the process. "Again."

Slowly, he inserted one finger, slick with her own saliva, between Granger's legs, hissing in satisfaction as she whimpered. "You are so fucking tight," he told her, working his finger through her delicious folds. "And wet." When her knees came up and apart, opening her wider, he added the second finger, scissoring them for her pleasure and to ready her virginal cunt for a thorough fucking.

Granger was bucking into his hand. "Please, please, Malfoy," she panted. "I want - I need _more_." Her begging was delicious.

"More, Granger? Are you _sure_?" he teased, beginning to circle her with his thumb.

Her hips moved faster and her eyes were again squeezed shut. "Yes, yes, yes," she chanted. "Please, Draco!"

He waited until she had just begun convulsing around his fingers before abruptly withdrawing them. Granger opened her eyes - the golden flecks more prominent than usual - and glared at him in pure outrage. "Malfoy!"

Then her eyes widened, realizing he had pushed his boxers down and his newly-freed cock was positioned at her entrance.

"You did want more, didn't you?" Draco asked, with a devilish look on his face. She stared into his eyes, trying to read him, but she wasn't a Legilemens. "Please, let me," he begged.

After only a few seconds - seconds that nonetheless stretched to an eternity for Draco - Granger slowly nodded her consent.

(x) (x) (x)

Hermione looked up into Malfoy's opaque silver eyes. She had not planned on things going quite this far, and was hard-pressed to explain how she had found herself in this deliciously compromising position, naked and spread out beneath him, with her entire body thrumming with desire. She _had_ been begging him for more, but had the sudden thought that this was too much.

"Please, let me," he begged, and the raw urgency in his voice decided her. She trusted him, they had been working towards this moment the entire school year, and Hermione knew that Malfoy would make her first time a memorable one. Staring into his eyes, she nodded. An overjoyed look flashed across his face, mixed with relief.

Malfoy pushed into her immediately, leaving no time for second thoughts. He paused as the tip of his cock reached her hymen, a strange sensation that made Hermione gasp. Then he gripped her hips and thrust forward sharply, breaking the barrier and pulling a strangled cry from between her lips. With another hard thrust, he was fully seated within her.

From the open-mouthed look of ecstasy on his face, Hermione could tell Malfoy was reveling in the feel of her tight walls against the length of his cock. It didn't seem fair that something that so obviously felt brilliant for him felt alien and painful for her. From dormitory gossip, she had known that the first time could hurt, but not like this. The sharp, stabbing pain of Malfoy's initial penetration mixed with the uncomfortable sensation that she was being stretched out to the point of tearing, making her breathe in short, shallow pants as she desperately tried to adjust.

"Hey, don't cry," Malfoy said, using his thumb to wipe away tears she had not known were in her eyes. "That's not what brave Gryffindors are supposed to do." Mercifully, he withdrew partway out of body, providing welcome relief. "Shift your hips until you find an angle that feels good for you," he instructed. Hermione was skeptical that being impaled by a rigid rod of flesh in her most sensitive bits could feel good, until she moved in a way that ignited sparks of pleasure.

"Oh," she gasped at the unexpected feeling.

"Move as much or as little as you like," Malfoy suggested, with a smug smile at her response. "I'm only about halfway in, but you can take more when you're ready."

Hermione thought that half his length was more than enough for her as she began to slowly rock her hips, seeking to regain that elusive sensation of pleasure she had felt when writhing on Malfoy's long fingers. He held the lower half of his body still, allowing her to set the pace while he occupied himself in using his mouth and hands to lavish her breasts with attention.

As she moved, the sharp pain between her legs faded to a dull ache, one that she found was best relieved by rubbing against Malfoy's hardness. Once found her rhythm, her initial discomfort with his size was replaced by an instinctive desire to be filled up completely. Within minutes, Hermione had taken his full length and was meeting him thrust for thrust, while begging him for more. "Harder, please. Please, Draco! Please fuck me harder!"

He complied with enthusiasm, ramming into her with speed and intensity until she came, crying out his name. Malfoy cut off her cries by crashing his lips onto hers and kissing her roughly, uncaring that she tasted like him and expensive champagne. Unlike earlier, when he had abruptly cut short her pleasure by removing his fingers, Malfoy stayed deep within her as she rode out her orgasm, pulsing his cock inside her to extend the experience for her.

"Gods, Draco! That was amazing!" Hermione thanked him, unable to control a silly, sappy grin from spreading across her face. "People say sex is like flying, and now I know why you like flying so much."

He smirked, seeming to be amused by her babbling. "As much as I like flying, I like fucking you better," he said in a husky voice, grey eyes dark with lust.

Her grin broadened and she wrapped her arms around his neck to kiss him, wisely using actions instead of words to express just how much she cared about the blond boy poised above her.

(x) (x) (x)

"As much as I like flying, I like fucking you better," he said, a true statement that made Granger beam. He stared down at her luminous golden eyes and untamable hair, trying to capture the image in his memory. When she came, she was beautiful.

"Now it's my turn, pet," he murmured, hoping she would not notice the regret lurking in his eyes.

He hoisted her legs over his shoulders, folding her body nearly in half. Granger's eyes widened at the new position, understandably nervous. He now had complete control over the pace and depth of penetration. Draco pushed in slowly until he bottomed out, bumping up against her cervix with the tip of his cock.

"It's too deep," she moaned.

"You can take it," Draco insisted, groaning in pleasure. He grabbed her hands and placed them onto his chest. "Use your claws, kitten, if it feels too intense."

He barely felt her scratching him as he thrust deeply in and out, seeking to reach a climax that was approaching with the speed of the Hogwarts Express. And despite Granger's whimpered protests that it was too much, that it hurt, Draco was hellbent on bringing her over the edge with him. With a seeking thumb, he found the hidden spot between her folds that made her clench around him.

"Mine. Mine. _Mine_." Each time, Draco punctuated the word with a hard snap of his hips and a swipe of his thumb on the sensitive nub between her legs. On the third repetition, he felt her convulsing around him as she screamed without words.

"Fuck, yeah. Fucking come for me, Mudblood," he moaned in her ear, savoring the feeling and thrusting deeper. "My Mudblood. All mine," were his last coherent words before he climaxed with a loud cry and collapsed over her smaller body.

"Malfoy, get off," Granger hissed, two hands pushing ineffectually at his chest.

"Already did," he muttered, rolling over and taking her with him. Like a rag doll, he arranged her body, her back held to his front. Just lying here like this, with his body curled around Granger's smaller form, was oddly comforting. It would be nice to drift off to sleep, even on the floor in a dusty old classroom, so long as he had his witch in his arms. But he had an appointment with his aunt and fellow Death Eaters at the Room of Requirement and could not afford to be late. And he needed to keep his wits about him for the most important part of his evening with Granger.

To his surprise, she allowed him to hold her for a few minutes. His racing heart was almost back to normal when she rolled over in his arms, propped up on one elbow to face him. "Draco?"

He raised an eyebrow at how readily she had abandoned use of his surname after being shagged. "Yes, Granger?"

Her dark eyes looked troubled. "You called me a Mudblood. Just now. You haven't done that all year, but you just said said it. Twice."

"Did I?" he asked lazily. "What of it?"

"It's a slur, Draco," she explained earnestly. "It's a vicious, vile, racist term."

Draco stood and stretched, showing her the brand on his left arm. "I _am_ a vicious, vile racist, Granger. And you _are_ a Mudblood." He laughed at her, meanly. "I certainly have called you a Mudblood any number of times this year. Perhaps not to your face - I have been on rather good behavior while trying to get into your knickers," he drawled.

Granger looked like he had slapped her. Draco prudently put some distance between them before she could respond in kind, with an actual, physical blow.

"I am a _Muggleborn_ witch," she declared with vehemence. "Not a Mudblood. If you weren't so blinded by Voldemort's stupid ideology, you'd admit my blood is just as red as yours." She stared pointedly between his legs, where some of her blood was smeared and drying.

"Don't be stupid, Granger," he said roughly, pointing his wand at himself and performing a quick Scourgify. "It doesn't suit you. It's not a question of color - it's about purity. And you are decidedly impure. Filthy, even." Draco leered at her as he pulled on his boxers and trousers, prudently keeping his wand at the ready in case she tried to hex or hit him.

"Why did you shag me, then, if I'm so filthy?" she demanded with a sneer, taking to her feet with a wince. She grabbed a shirt - his, he noted - and used it to cover her nakedness. "Aren't you scared your master will punish you for sullying yourself with the likes of me?"

Her voice was thick with sarcasm rather than tears, and Draco infinitely preferred it that way. He still felt terrible that he had made her cry from pain earlier when he took her virginity, though he had made it good for her in the end. Now, he decided to provoke her further, to make her even angrier.

"The Dark Lord has no objection to Mudbloods in their rightful position, on their knees or on their backs," he parroted, smirking. "You've amply demonstrated your talents in both positions. I suspect he will pleased that I've shown you your proper place."

"Gods, you are disgusting, Malfoy! I can't wait until this is all over and you're locked up in Azkaban with all of the other psychotic Death Eaters," she viciously wished.

"Don't be naive, Granger," he warned her in a cold voice. "Dumbledore is going to die, and without him, your precious Potter doesn't have a prayer. The Dark Lord will win and rule over our world."

Granger shook her head, but he could see the fear behind her eyes. She knew the Light side was overmatched.

"I'll look after you when that happens, pet," Draco promised. "You'll find that I take very good care of my possessions."

"I'm a person, not a possession," she snapped. "And I can take care of myself." Granger made a grab for her bag - and her wand - but he got there first.

"I need my wand, Malfoy," she protested. "I promise I won't hex you, but I need to cast a contraceptive charm."

"Do Gryffindors actually fall for tricks like that?" Draco asked rhetorically. One would have to be as thick as a concussed troll to give Granger her wand back in this situation. Instead, he stretched to place it on the top edge of a chalkboard, well above her reach, before reaching into his own satchel. He handed her the glass vial he had so carefully packed earlier in the evening. "Drink this. It's a very strong contraceptive potion. I don't want a half-blood bastard as a result of this encounter any more than you do."

"Merlin forbid that you ever reproduce," Granger said with feeling. She grabbed the vial from him and went to drink the cherry-red potion, just as he hoped. Then she stopped and sniffed it, swirling the potion and eying the hints of purple with suspicion. "This isn't just contraceptive potion," she accused, shoving the vial back in his hands. "I am not drinking this, Malfoy."

Draco took it back before she could fling it at him. "I've added a dose of Dreamless Sleep," he acknowledged, "but there's nothing harmful. I can't have you running off to Potter or a teacher and buggering everything up. You'll be safer if you're asleep here, rather than trying to duel Death Eaters twice your age," he reasoned with her, holding out the potion.

She made no move to take it, a stubborn set to her jaw. "If you're planning something, I need to tell Harry. You won't get away with this, Malfoy."

He should have known that appealing to her non-existent sense of self-preservation would not work. Perhaps he would have better luck with a more direct threat. Draco snatched his shirt away, leaving Granger exposed and vulnerable.

"You'll drink it, even if I have to tackle you and force it down your throat. I won't answer for the consequences if you're naked and thrashing underneath me," he threatened. "Of course, if you want another go, you only need to ask," he added with a nasty smile. Inwardly, he hoped she would drink it and not call his bluff.

Granger looked defiant as he raked her body with eyes. "You are vile, Malfoy. I can't believe I was so stupid as to ever trust you, to believe you were a decent person despite the Dark Mark on your arm."

Draco let her vent without comment, because she was holding out her hand for the potion in capitulation. He placed the vial in her palm, closing her fingers over it.

She pulled her hand away in disgust. "I loathe you, and if I never speak to you again, it will be too soon." Still, she drank it.

"Make sure that you swallow it all, Granger. You're good at that," he taunted. She gave him a hateful look and a two-fingered salute before curling herself up on the floor in a protective little ball.

"Oh, I forgot - you're not speaking to me. How mature!" mocked Malfoy. "Actually, you can give me the silent treatment as long as you'd like, provided you open your swotty little mouth for other purposes. Though I'm sure I could have you screaming my name again if I tried, Granger."

She was still giving him a basilisk glare from her prone position on the floor, but struggling to keep her eyes open. He watched her carefully as he redressed and packed up his things until he was almost certain she had fallen asleep. Draco nudged her ribs with the tip of his dragonhide loafers, eliciting no reaction. He bent down to whisper in her ear. "Bye, Mudblood. You know what they say - you'll never forget your first."

She did not even twitch. He straightened, his gaze caught by blood staining the insides of her thighs. With a grimace, Draco tossed his school robes over her and left the room without a backward glance.

(x) (x) (x)

Hermione waited until she heard the soft _snick_ of the lock and Malfoy's footsteps receding down the hallway. Then she counted to sixty, or tried to, skipping some numbers and repeating others in her drugged state, before she opened her mouth. The potion that she had pretended to choke down under his watchful eye dribbled onto the stone floor.

Hermione thanked Merlin that her parents were dentists. Due to their insistence on regular childhood dental exams, she had perfected the technique of closing off her throat to avoid swallowing fluoride and toothpaste. It worked equally well on potions. Still, enough Dreamless Sleep had trickled down her throat that she fell forward to her hands and knees when she tried to stagger to her feet. Her vision was blurred, and it was so tempting to rest her cheek against the stone floor and let sleep overtake her.

She stuck two fingers into her mouth and down her throat, trying without success to vomit. When that did not work, she forced herself to think back on everything that Malfoy had done to her. Hermione focused on the gagging feeling when his penis had been too deep in her throat and the revolting fact that she had willingly swallowed his semen. That was enough to make her retch, heaving the liquid contents of her stomach onto the classroom floor.

With her head somewhat clearer, she attempted to wandlessly summon her wand. "_Accio_," she said repeatedly, to no effect. Frustrated, and worried what might be going on in the castle while she was stuck here without a wand, Hermione screamed it. Her wand did not fly neatly into her hand, but it rolled enough to clatter down from its perch atop the chalkboard. "Oh, thank Merlin!" she breathed in gratitude, crawling across the classroom floor to retrieve her wand.

Hermione cast an Ennervate on herself, negating the soporific effects of the Dreamless Sleep. She followed that with three of the four contraceptive charms she knew. The fourth was a morning-after charm and she would cast it on herself tomorrow, assuming she survived the night. Hermione Scourgified herself, more than once, ignoring the spell's sting on sensitive flesh, and then redressed, eager to get Malfoy's robes off of her. They smelt like him. Lastly, she Vanished the mess she had vomited up and Disillusioned herself for the walk up three floors to Gryffindor tower.

Hermione left the classroom, walking as quickly as her sore and stretched muscles would allow. If anything that came out of Malfoy's mouth could be believed, there were going to be Death Eaters in the castle tonight. She had to go and warn Harry.


	11. Chapter 11: June 1997 (part 2)

**_June 1997_**

Blaise Zabini had been sorted into Slytherin primarily on the basis of innate slyness and a talent for emotional manipulation, both inherited from his oft-married mother. His ambitions generally did not extend beyond getting into his latest _amore's _knickers, and he was much more of a social snob than a blood purist. The best of his mother's husbands, in his not very humble opinion, had been a Muggleborn, while the biggest arsehole had been a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

After a rocky start at the age of eleven, including several fistfights and a running exchange of jinxes that landed them in adjacent beds in the Hogwarts infirmary, Draco Malfoy had become his closest friend, his brother in all but blood. So when Draco stormed into their dungeon dormitory, with a tense set to his shoulders and a bleak expression on his face, Blaise knew something was terribly wrong.

"You're late, Malfoy. Where were you?" Nott asked with a sneer. "Off shagging your Mudblood whore?"

Blaise thought Nott's observation about the nature of Draco's activities had some merit, given that his friend's platinum hair was notably mussed and his shirt was buttoned askew, but he suspected that Draco might take issue with the phrasing.

"It's none of your fucking business where I was or who I was with, Nott," Draco said coldly. He tossed his expensive dragonhide book bag onto his bed with the careless negligence of a rich boy. "Let's go."

"Where're you all off to?" Blaise asked with seeming unconcern. Unlike the other Slytherin sixth year boys, who had jumped to their feet at Draco's command, he remained sprawled on his bed, where he had been writing a Charms essay.

"Also none of your business, Blaise," Draco said, but in a much milder tone. "Though I strongly suggest you confine your promiscuous ways to the Slytherin dungeons this evening. Any student who is caught out of bounds tonight might get into more trouble than he or she bargained for. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal," Blaise confirmed, unusually serious. Ever since dinner, Crabbe and Goyle had been markedly fidgety, like dogs that knew a thunderstorm was just over the horizon, while Nott had seemed torn between eagerness and anxiety. All of their fathers were Death Eaters. Put that together with Draco's Dark Mark, it was evident to Blaise that the mysterious mission that had driven his blond friend to the brink of a breakdown over the school year was about to come to an explosive conclusion.

Draco looked at him, a desperate plea in his grey eyes. Blaise was quick to pick up on the silent message. "Drake, can I have a quick word? It's important."

"Not as important as his mission," Nott interjected.

Draco rounded on Nott, viciously. "Are you a fucking Gryffindor? Show some discretion, for Salazar's sake. Go along with Vince and Greg to the common room. Wait for me there and make sure everyone knows to stay in the dungeons."

The two larger boys obeyed with alacrity. After a silent staring contest, Nott grudgingly left the room, leaving Blaise and Draco alone. Draco pointed his wand at the door and muttered a complex locking spell to keep Nott and anyone else out.

"What's up, Drake?"

"I need you to give a message to Granger."

"Is there a reason why you can't you give it to her yourself?" Blaise asked, with a serpent's innate caution.

"After tonight, I may not be around for a while," the blond explained. "And even if I am, Granger's not going to be in the mood to listen to anything I have to say."

"Did you two have a lovers' spat, bro?" Blaise inquired, half-amused. "That would explain why your shirt is buttoned wrong." He smirked inwardly as Draco's involuntary twitch confirmed his suspicion as to who the blond had been with earlier.

"Fuck off, tosser," Draco muttered, unbuttoning his shirt. "It's a bit more serious than a spat. Can you also tell her - _please_ tell her - that I don't always mean what I say?"

"You're a Slytherin. By now, she should know _that_," Blaise grinned. The grin faded when he saw the scratch marks on Draco's pale chest. Two sets of livid pink vertical lines ran from his shoulders to just above his flat nipples. In some places, Granger's blunt fingernails had dug deep enough to draw blood.

Blaise drew in a sharp breath. The dark-skinned Slytherin frequently walked around the boys' shared bedroom with his shirt off to showcase the scratches on his back, which he considered badges of honor from his enthusiastic paramours, but Draco's were something entirely different. They looked liked the sort of wounds a girl would inflict in self-defense.

He looked at his best friend, horrified. "What the fuck did you do to her?" Draco wasn't one to force a girl, but Granger was a Muggleborn and Blaise knew the sorts of sick things the Dark Lord demanded from his followers. It was one of the reasons he was determined not to be become a Death Eater. "You didn't - "

"No, I didn't," his friend denied vehemently, not even allowing Blaise to finish. "It was consensual sex, but it was her first time and I lost control."

"If you say so, mate," Blaise said doubtfully. Draco's self-control, especially when it came to witches, was legendary. And one didn't need to be a master Legilimens to figure out he was hiding something.

"When you see Granger, tell her I didn't mean what I said, afterwards," Draco repeated. "Tell her I never wanted to hurt her."

"I'll do my best," Blaise promised. From what little Draco had divulged, he was highly skeptical that Granger would allow him to get more than two words out before hexing him on the spot, but Draco needed to hear that reassurance. "Good luck with whatever it is you have to do."

"Thanks, Blaise," Draco replied, with a cocky smirk that failed to reach his grey eyes. "See you around."

With that, he was out the door, leaving Blaise sitting on his bed, shaking his head. "Draco, what in Merlin's name have you done? And what are you going to do now?"

(x) (x) (x)

Hermione walked through the castle as quickly and stealthily as she could. Even with the benefit of a Disillusionment charm, she kept to the shadows, wand out. Hogwarts seemed unusually dark and menacing tonight, but perhaps it was only her perception that had shifted. _Constant vigilance_, she thought with a bitter twist to her mouth. How stupid she had been, to let her guard down around someone she knew was a Death Eater.

She was supposed to be the brightest witch of her age, but she had behaved like a silly schoolgirl where Malfoy was concerned. The residual soreness between her legs was nothing compared to the sting of her humiliation. Hermione cringed at how pathetically _willing_ she had been. She had not been overpowered and raped by a Death Eater; instead, she had allowed Malfoy to have his way with her, biting her lip and spreading her legs wide to take the pain because she wanted to please him. She had even been on the verge of confessing that she loved him. Now, she could only thank Nimue, Morgana, and all the Fae that she had held her tongue.

Hermione shook her head at her own idiocy, buying into the cliché of the reformed bad boy. She truly had believed that Malfoy had changed, that he had learnt over the course of their study sessions that blood-based prejudice was groundless and she was his equal, just as entitled to wield a wand and exercise the magic within her. She had thought, too, that he cared about her, as much as she cared about him. The realization that Malfoy still regarded her as nothing but a Mudblood - something to keep as a sexual pet in the twisted world he wished to help Voldemort create - that hurt, much more than the physical discomfort of her first time.

She made it back to the Gryffindor common room ten minutes before curfew, wincing at the climb through the portrait hole. Malfoy had been less than gentle with her. Hermione wanted nothing more than to scrub herself in a scalding hot bath, to remove every last trace of him from her person, and then curl up in her bed and cry herself to sleep behind the privacy of drawn crimson curtains and a silencing charm. Instead, she forced herself to sit down next to an oblivious Ron and pretend to proofread his Charms essay, while anxiously waiting for Harry to return.

Harry ran into their common room a few minutes later. He dashed past her and Ron without a word, racing up the stairs to the boys' bedroom and back down again with the Marauder's Map and a pair of rolled-up socks. Quickly, so quickly that he tripped over his words, he explained to them that he was leaving with Dumbledore to retrieve a Horcrux and that Professor Trelawney had overheard a male voice whooping with triumph in the Room of Requirement. "So you see what this means? Dumbledore won't be here tonight, so Malfoy's going to have another clear shot at whatever he's up to."

Hermione made to interrupt him, to tell him what Malfoy had told her, but Harry shushed her angrily. "_No, listen to me_! I know it was Malfoy celebrating in the Room of Requirement." He shoved the Marauder's Map into her hands. "You've got to watch him and you've got to watch Snape, too."

Hermione bit back a reflexive protest at the thought of getting anywhere near Malfoy. She felt a bit ill at the thought of him celebrating with Merlin only knew who in the Room of Requirement, after leaving her naked and bleeding on a classroom floor, but decided not to tell Harry the very personal reasons Malfoy had to gloat this evening. Harry could not afford that distraction when he was heading off to hunt for a Horcrux.

Instead, she nodded in agreement at his suggestion that she use the D.A. Galleons to rustle up reinforcements. She would delegate, get someone else to shadow the blond Death Eater. Still, Hermione knew she had to tell Harry what Malfoy had said, so he and Dumbledore did not arrive back to a Death Eater ambush. "Harry - "

"I haven't got time to argue," said Harry curtly, handing the socks to Ron. "Take this as well - "

"I'm not arguing!" Hermione interrupted him, frustrated that he would not listen. "There are going to be Death Eaters at Hogwarts tonight, from what Malfoy said."

Harry nodded, slowly, a question in his green eyes that he mercifully opted not to ask. "I tried to warn Dumbledore, but he just brushed me off, said the castle was protected," Harry said, equally frustrated.

"It will be," Hermione promised. "Even if we have to protect it ourselves." She glanced down at the Map, confirming that Malfoy's dot was nowhere to be found.

Ron nodded in agreement. "Er - why do I need socks?"

"You need what's wrapped in them, it's the Felix Felicis," Harry explained impatiently.

Ron unwrapped the socks, revealing the tiny little bottle of golden potion they had protected from breakage.

"No!" Hermione cried. "We don't want it, you take it, who knows what you're going to be facing?"

"I'll be fine, I'll be with Dumbledore," Harry said. "I want to know you lot are okay."

Hermione tried to keep her face expressionless, to hide the fear she was feeling, but it did not work.

"Don't look like that, Hermione," Harry urged. "I'll see you later." And then he was gone, hurrying through the portrait hole to meet Dumbledore.

"Well, bottoms up," Ron suggested, taking a sip before handing her the potion vial. Hermione took a small sip, leaving enough for Ginny. Instantly, she felt better. The remaining fuzziness from the Dreamless Sleep she had swallowed faded, as did the lingering soreness in her body. Ron's eyes were bright, and together they would come up with a strategy to foil whatever Malfoy was plotting. She felt ready to fight, capable of facing him and any other number of Death Eaters, and confident everything would work out in the end. At least until their luck ran out.

(x) (x) (x)

The ominous grinding noise stopped, leaving silence to reign temporarily over the Room of Requirement.

Crabbe and Nott looked eager. Greg - who had drawn the short straw and had been sent to and from Borgin and Burkes an hour earlier in the night as a human test subject - visibly cringed. Draco stepped forward to open the doors of the Vanishing Cabinet, holding his breath.

His hopes were dashed when his aunt stepped from the interior of the cabinet, in perfect physical health and holding out an imperious hand to demand his assistance. "Give me a kiss, nephew," Bellatrix cooed, presenting her cheek as though she had not tortured him halfway to insanity within the week.

Draco managed an air kiss, watching over his aunt's shoulder as the Carrows, Gibbon, Yaxley, and Greyback climbed out of the cabinet with varying degrees of grace and athleticism. Rowle was last and directed an evil smile in Draco's direction. Given that this was only greeting he received, other than from his mad aunt, Draco sneeringly thought that the Death Eaters' social graces left much to be desired.

Bellatrix clapped her hands in glee once they all were assembled. "Well, isn't this just lovely! Are you boys all ready for some fun?"

"Yes, Aunt," Draco replied. Crabbe grunted, Goyle mumbled, but Nott said nothing, miming grabbing at his throat.

"What's wrong with him?" Bellatrix demanded.

Draco smirked. "I had to Silence him. Nott was a bit over-excited when the Vanishing Cabinet worked for Greg. He started whooping, actually alerted a teacher we were in here. We were lucky it was just that drunken old fraud who teaches Divination - no one will believe her."

"Foolish, pathetic boy, risking our Lord's mission!" Bellatrix shrieked at Nott. "You aspire to be a Death Eater, do you? I'll show you how it's done, shall I?"

She pointed her wand at Draco's cringing classmate, laughing maniacally. "_Crucio_!"

Nott's mouth opened in a silent scream. Watching him writhe on the ground, Draco decided that the torture curse was not so bad when it was being inflicted on someone who deserved it. He considered this fair payment for Nott's numerous filthy comments about Granger, including earlier this evening. Only he was allowed to speak about her that way.

His aunt lowered her wand and Nott curled into a fetal position. Draco lifted the _Silencio_ he had cast upon his fellow Slytherin, allowing Nott's crying to become audible.

"This sniveling whelp is supposed to be Marked this summer? The Dark Lord certainly has relaxed his recruiting standards with the younger generation." Rowle sneered openly at Nott before turning on Draco. "I can hardly wait to see that pretty little Mudblood, to show her how a real wizard wields his wand."

"Sorry to disappoint, Thorfinn, but _my_ Mudblood won't be fighting," Draco said, tone and expression note-perfect. "I wore her out. Fucked her so hard she won't be able to walk straight for a week."

"Shagged her into the mattress, did you?" Gibbon asked with a coarse laugh.

Draco favored him with a chilly smile. "It was the floor, actually. Filth like that doesn't deserve a bed. Even if it was her first time."

Rowle and his aunt looked sour, while Goyle stared at Nott crying on the floor, but the remaining Death Eaters and Crabbe seemed amused at his treatment of Granger. Greyback offered a feral grin and Amycus Carrow guffawed and nudged him in the ribs. "That's the way to handle 'em! Good on you."

"Enough about Draco's Mudblood," snapped Bellatrix. "He has a mission to complete and our Master will be most displeased should he fail. Draco needs to be ready for Dumbledore on top of the Astronomy Tower when that old fool returns to the school."

"What about Snape?" Yaxley asked. "Shouldn't we wait for him?"

"I don't trust him," Bellatrix shook her head. "Who knows where his real loyalties lie?"

"I don't need him," Draco piped up. He was virtually certain he _did_ know his godfather's true loyalties. If Voldemort broke his promise to him - killing Granger, or giving her to another Death Eater - Draco knew the only thing that would stop him from turning was fear for his mother. After the death of Lily Potter, Professor Snape had no such lever for the Dark Lord to control him. Draco wanted to save his godfather from exposure by keeping him out of the battle, in repayment for all the times Snape had shielded him over the years.

"Fine, then. Let's go," Yaxley agreed.

"Crabbe and Goyle - you stay here," Draco ordered. "Keep the Room open for us in case we need it." He knew they would not last even minutes in a magical duel. While he could care less if Nott came along and got himself killed, Draco felt obligated to protect the two oafish boys who had followed him since childhood.

"Time to go," Bellatrix cackled, opening the door of the Room of Requirement, to the unexpected sight of members of Dumbledore's Army waiting for them in the corridor, wands ready.

(x) (x) (x)

It had been more than an hour, and Hermione could tell the Felix had just about worn off as midnight approached.

Before, she had been comfortable sitting cross-legged on the floor outside Professor Snape's office with Luna Lovegood. Luna's gentle prattling about non-existent magical creatures had been a soothing distraction from Hermione's self-recrimination over Malfoy and fear of the impending battle as they waited for their cue to action.

Now, Hermione shifted with discomfort on the stone floor, as aches and pains returned to her body. Her anxiety levels spiked as she second-guessed Ron's strategy, derived under the influence of Felix Felicis. Did it really make sense for them to divide forces like this, especially when Professor Snape was on their side? Should they have gone to Professor McGonagall and asked her to bring in more members of the Order of the Phoenix? Shouldn't they all be waiting outside the Room of Requirement, where Malfoy was holed up?

_Okay?_ Hermione nervously used her charmed Galleon to contact Ron. They had been using them to communicate back and forth all night. She stared at the golden surface, willing it to form a reassuring response, but nothing came.

"Luna, I think something's happening. Should we - "

Light, pattering footsteps interrupted her. Professor Flitwick, moving as fast as she had ever seen him, tore past then into Snape's chambers. "Severus!" he yelled. "You must come quickly! There are Death Eaters in Hogwarts!"

Hermione could not make out Professor Snape's response, but she and Luna exchanged frightened looks at the loud thump that issued from within his office. Snape himself emerged a few moments later, nearly stumbling over them.

"Miss Granger? I might have known," he said sardonically. "Filius has been overcome with panic at the thought that there are more Death Eaters in the castle tonight than the usual two. Would you and Miss Lovegood be so kind as to escort him to the hospital wing, while I go and assist?"

"Yes, sir," Hermione responded automatically.

"Excellent, thank you." The potions professor gave them both a curt nod before swiftly striding away, black robes billowing behind him.

"Who is the second Death Eater usually in the castle?" Luna wondered, her protuberant eyes tracking the professor's receding form as she followed Hermione into his office.

"It's Malfoy," Hermione answered absently as she felt Professor Flitwick's pulse. It was steady but fast, though she was not sure if that was normal for someone who was half-goblin.

"Draco? I would have thought he has too much of a conscience to become a Death Eater," Luna opined in her sweet, slightly vacant way. "I suppose that explains all the nargles flocking around him all year."

As she levitated their unconscious Charms professor, Hermione snorted at the equally incredible notions of nargles and Malfoy with a conscience.

"Just because you can't see something directly doesn't mean it's not there," Luna said serenely, lending her wand to the effort of lifting Professor Flitwick and taking no offense at her friend's skepticism. "Sometimes you just need a change in perspective."

"Maybe," Hermione allowed as they walked together towards the infirmary, preoccupied with Snape's unusual attitude. He had treated them with much more cordiality than she would have expected, given that he had just found them lurking outside his quarters after curfew. _Never trust a snake, especially when he's being charming_, Malfoy's voice echoed in her mind.

"Luna, it's a trick!" Hermione gasped. "Snape's trying to get us out of the way!"

Luna's eyes met hers in horrified comprehension. "Professor Snape said he was going to help, but he didn't say which side, did he?"

(x) (x) (x)

Draco swiftly climbed the narrow spiral stairs leading to the Astronomy Tower, his heart pounding with more than physical exertion. It had been a pitched battle on the seventh floor - the first he had ever participated in - and nothing that he had been prepared for. The Peruvian Darkness Powder had fortunately created enough of a diversion for Draco to get to the tower.

He drew a steadying breath. Dumbledore would be up there, drawn like a moth to a flame by the Dark Mark Bellatrix had fired into the sky from a seventh-story window, and he would have to duel him, the most powerful wizard on the Light side and the only one the Dark Lord feared.

"_Expelliarmus_!" Draco shouted as he burst through the tower door, stealing a page from Potter's book and hoping it would work for him, too. Miracle of miracles, it worked - Dumbledore's wand went flying over the edge of the ramparts, irretrievable.

"Good evening, Draco," the headmaster greeted him with composure, showing better manners than any of Draco's supposed compatriots. "Are you acting alone?"

Draco saw no harm in answering. "No, I've got back-up. There are Death Eaters in your school tonight."

"Well, well. Very good indeed," Dumbledore congratulated him. "You found a way to let them in, did you? Ingenious."

Draco narrowed his eyes at the headmaster's condescension. "Right under your nose and you never realized!"

Dumbledore regarded him steadily, looking sickly pale in the greenish light cast by the Dark Mark above them. "Draco, my dear boy, you are not a killer," he said softly, an absurd little smile on his face.

"How do you know?" he asked the headmaster, feeling a rush of anger. Quite a bit had changed in the past few days, since he had sought Dumbledore's help and been sent away with a pat on the head. "You don't know what I'm capable of! You don't know what I've done!" Draco shouted.

Despite his protestations to Blaise, what he had done to Granger came uncomfortably close to rape. She never would have given her consent if she had known what he was plotting. Even worse, Draco knew he had _hurt_ Granger deliberately, with his body and with his words, to meet his master's expectations. Telling himself that any other Death Eater would have been more brutal, even if true, did little to alleviate his self-loathing.

Dumbledore was still talking, oblivious to his inner turmoil. "I don't think you will kill me, Draco. Killing is not nearly as easy as the innocent believe . . . . Tell me, while we wait for your friends, how you managed to smuggle them in here?"

He eyed the old man with cold assessment. Dumbledore could barely keep himself upright and looked as though he had been poisoned. The headmaster's ploy to keep him talking was pathetically transparent, but Draco was willing to play along for a little while, to see if Dumbledore expired on his own, without Draco's intervention.

"I had to mend that broken Vanishing Cabinet," he answered. "The one Montague got lost in last year."

"Aaaah," Dumbledore half-sighed, half-groaned in comprehension. "That was a clever plan and, as you said, right under my nose. Though you must have had help, to get the cabinet to work."

"It was Granger - all of her tutoring in Arithmancy paid off," Draco bragged.

"Alas, not in the way I anticipated," Dumbledore sighed more deeply.

Draco shouldn't have been surprised. After all, the man had asked Granger to whore herself out to spy on him - what was a little bit of tutoring? "I got the idea of enchanted coins and poisoning mead from Mudblood Granger, as well," he boasted with a twisted smile, perversely proud of his brilliant little witch.

"Please do not use that offensive word in front of me," reprimanded Dumbledore.

Draco gave harsh laugh. "You care about me saying 'Mudblood' when I'm about to kill you?"

"Yes, I do," the old wizard insisted, even as his feet slipped further underneath him. "But as for being about to kill me, Draco, you have had several long minutes now. I am more defenseless than you can have dreamed of finding me, and still you have not acted . . . . So let us discuss your options."

"My options!?" Draco scoffed, incredulous. This was the discussion they should have had on Sunday, when it was still possible to change course. "I haven't got any options! He'll kill me. He'll kill my whole family - everyone I care about!"

Dumbledore spoke persuasively, outlining his daft plan to fake Draco's death and somehow extract his mother from the Death Eaters' headquarters at Malfoy Manor.

He stared at the old wizard, wondering if he was senile. Dumbledore was right about one thing, though - the Dark Lord had set him up to fail. He would have failed, too, if not for Granger. "But I got this far, didn't I?" Draco said slowly. That was going to be enough to save his mother's life.

Killing Dumbledore would place him high enough in the Dark Lord's favor to protect Granger as well as his family. "I'm here and you're in my power. I'm the one with the wand. You're at my mercy," he said, rationalizing murder in his own mind. Draco raised his wand in a trembling hand. He opened his mouth, to force out the words of the Killing Curse.

The door burst open and Draco was buffeted to one side as Greyback, the Carrows and Yaxley stormed through. Draco enjoyed a brief respite as the werewolf and misshapen siblings taunted Dumbedore, until Yaxley sharply negated Greyback's offer to rip out the headmaster's throat. "No. We've got orders. Draco's got to do it. Now, Draco, and quickly!"

He raised his wand, despising himself that his hand was shaking so badly he could barely aim at the dying old man. Granger would never forgive him for this.

His godfather arrived on the tower like an answer to a prayer, his wand clutched in his hand and his dark eyes taking in the scene. He walked towards the headmaster, pushing Draco out of his path with a reassuring clasp on his shoulder. Gratefully, sagging against the stone balustrade, Draco lowered his wand.

"Severus . . . " Dumbledore said pleadingly. "Severus . . . please . . . ."

Professor Snape raised his wand and pointed it directly at the headmaster.

Draco closed his eyes, partially in relief and partially to avoid what he knew was coming.

"_Avada Kedavra_!" Snape cried, and Draco opened his eyes to the sight of Dumbledore's lifeless body tumbling over the ramparts.

(x) (x) (x)

Hermione and Luna raced from the hospital wing, having left Professor Flitwick in Madam Pomfrey's capable hands.

"This way, up the stairs!" Hermione suggested, pointing to a subsidiary staircase near the entrance to the infirmary. Without the Marauders' Map, she could only guess where the Death Eaters were fighting, but the upper floors seemed most likely. She speculated that Malfoy had found something in the Room of Requirement that enabled him to breach the wards on one of the towers, allowing the Death Eaters to fly in, or perhaps some point of entry in the Room itself.

Luna and Hermione paused at the fifth floor landing to catch their breath and listen for any signs of a battle. Instead, they heard pounding footsteps drawing closer. They drew back into the shadowy corridor, waiting to see if the running feet belonged to friend or foe. "Wands out," Hermione whispered, unnecessarily.

It was Snape, with his hand on gripped around Malfoy's upper arm, pulling him along. For a moment, Hermione dared to hope that Harry was wrong and the professor had loyally captured the youngest Death Eater. But then he spoke. "Hurry, Draco! Down the steps!" he urged. "The Order members are only minutes behind us!"

In hindsight, she should have waited for them to run past and then hexed Malfoy in the back. But Hermione had her share of reckless Gryffindor courage. She jumped out in front of the two men, casting the worst spell she knew, excluding the Unforgivables, straight at a shocked-looking Malfoy. "_Sectumsempra_!"

Quicker than thought, he blocked it, not with the standard shield charm, but a specific counter she had never heard before. "Did you really think my godfather would leave me defenseless against Potty's favorite new Dark Arts spell?" the blond bastard mocked her. "Try again, Granger!"

She did, trying to hamstring him with a well-placed _Diffindo_, but Malfoy dodged it. Luna attempted to disarm Professor Snape, but her spell was a split-second behind his Stunner. The Ravenclaw girl crumpled to the ground. The professor whirled around and hit Hermione from the side with an _Incarcerous_, following it with a _Silencio_ as she fell heavily to the ground, magical ropes wrapped around her arms and legs.

With her cheek against the stone floor, she could only watch as Malfoy approached, seeing his expensive, perfectly shined shoes out of the corner of her eye. He pulled her to a standing position, grey eyes inscrutable, and ran his hands down her body as she squirmed against her bonds, helpless to avoid his now-unwelcome touch. For a moment, it looked as though he would kiss her, but her blazing eyes warned him off.

A shadow crossed his face, followed by a sneer. "I was only checking if you were injured. You know that I've never forced you to do anything against your will."

Hermione snarled at him, soundlessly, incensed at the reminder that she had been so foolishly willing mere hours before.

"Leave the girl, Draco," Snape ordered. "She'll only slow us down."

Hermione felt Malfoy's wand tap the top of her head and the sensation of cold, raw egg running down her back. He had just Disillusioned her. She felt a thread of panic as he picked her up, thinking he was going to ignore Snape and kidnap her from Hogwarts, but he merely deposited her in an alcove behind a tapestry.

"The others still were fighting, but they'll be coming through any minute now," he explained. Malfoy shook his head in annoyance. "You were supposed to sleep through all of this, but I suppose Pothead found you using that damned map of his."

"Luna!" she mouthed at him urgently, still unable to speak due to Snape's jinx.

Malfoy understood. "Loony? I'll get her."

Even as he spoke, Professor Snape drew back the tapestry and levitated Luna's unconscious body into the alcove, on the floor. He glanced at them both and compressed his lips, as though biting back some sarcastic comment.

Malfoy paid no attention, his grey eyes fixed on Hermione. They shone silver in the moonlight filtering through the single, narrow window in the alcove. "Earlier . . . I saw something in your eyes. You were so open I couldn't help reading you."

Hermione's cheeks flamed in humiliation, that Malfoy had picked up on her thought that she loved him. He took a deep breath, as though steeling himself. "It's probably too late, after everything that's happened, but I . . . "

"As much as I hate to interrupt this touching interlude, we need to be going, Draco," Professor Snape broke in. "Now!"

Malfoy nodded, reluctantly. The sounds of a running battle were growing rapidly nearer. His hand softly stroked her cheek. "Stay safe, Granger."

Then the tapestry dropped in place behind him, and he was gone.

(x) (x) (x)

"Where are we?" Draco asked, landing on his feet despite the awkwardness of Side-Along Apparition. They were standing in the overgrown garden of a decrepit old house on a hilltop. The night air was entirely silent and still around them, and the place appeared deserted.

"Riddle House, Little Hangleton, Lancashire," Professor Snape answered succinctly.

Draco noticed an unusual quality to the few lights still glimmering in the village in the valley below. They were too bright and unwinking to be firelight or even gaslight. "Sir, is that a Muggle village?" A few thick cables ran from a pole into the old manor. "Is this a _Muggle_ house?"

"Idiot boy!" his godfather snarled, shoving him into the garden's stone wall. "Questions like that will get you tortured, even killed. Just like your sappiness with the Granger girl. This is the ancestral home of Lord Voldemort's father."

"I didn't know," Draco muttered, mortified at his _faux pas_. Still, his eyes darted back to those Muggle electricity lines connected to the Dark Lord's family home.

"Draco! Pay attention!" Snape spoke sharply. "We are going before the Dark Lord now to report on the success of your mission. You must take care to Occlude your mind. He will only be irritated by the extraneous thoughts of an adolescent boy."

Draco nodded with a dry mouth. He wanted to protest that he was not a boy, he was seventeen and a man and a full-fledged Death Eater, but in truth he felt very young and very frightened.

Professor Snape's dark eyes bored into his. "Remember what I taught you. Even the most skilled Legilemens cannot truly read your mind or emotions. He can only see images of past events and will interpret those based on his own experience and view of the world."

"I'll remember, this time," Draco vowed, even though it would be all too easy to slip when the Dark Lord was invading his mind with the force of a tsunami.

They entered the gloomy old mansion together, Draco taking the lead with Snape at his shoulder, offering silent comfort and support. Voldemort was enthroned in the drawing room, twirling his wand in spidery white fingers with the firelight reflecting the red in his eyes. Nagini was asleep at his feet, in an obscene parody of a loyal, large dog. They would have something close to a private audience, with only a few senior Death Eaters - Dolohov, Runcorn, and Theo Nott's father - standing in the shadows.

Draco walked forward, trying to project the proper attitude of eager servitude. He dropped to his knees a respectful distance from the Dark Lord's chair and bowed his head, avoiding eye contact for the moment. "My lord, I am pleased to report that Dumbledore is dead."

"Excellent," hissed Voldemort. "By your own hand?"

Professor Snape stepped forward and knelt. "Forgive me, my lord. Draco had Dumbledore disarmed and at wand point, but I could not restrain myself. I killed him."

The Dark Lord narrowed his eyes. "Luckily for you, Severus, I am in a magnanimous mood. However, I should like to see Dumbledore's death for myself. Come here, young Malfoy."

In response to the beckoning finger of his master, Draco crawled forward on his hands and knees. When he was near enough, Voldemort reached out to grasp his chin, staring at him with his red eyes.

Draco offered no resistance to the invasion of his mind, passively offering the scene on top of the Astronomy Tower for Voldemort's review. He held nothing back, having nothing to fear. After all, he had rejected Dumbledore's belated offer for protection.

"Doddering old fool," Voldemort's lip curled as he watched Dumbledore's last moments. "Allowing himself to be disarmed by an underage wizard." His followers laughed from the shadows.

"You did well, Draco," the Dark Lord offered measured praise. "Though I was unaware you relied so heavily upon Potter's Mudblood for your schemes."

"Yes, my lord," Draco said humbly, dipping his head. "I did use the Mudblood." He dared to look up and smirk. "I used her as you suggested."

"Oh? Let me see," Voldemort demanded, forcing his way back into Draco's mind.

Limpidly meeting the Dark Lord's eyes, Draco brought forward what his master wished to see: Granger on her knees, sucking him off to his specifications; his hands knotted in her curly hair as he thrust deep into her throat, not releasing her until she had gagged down his cum; the tears in her eyes when he forcibly breached her body with his cock for the very first time; Granger's nails raking his chest as he pounded into her as though she were a Knockturn Alley whore; the anger, fear and loathing in her dark eyes when he mocked and threatened her in the afters; how _broken_ she looked once the Dreamless Sleep knocked her out, sprawled on the castle's stone floor with blood and semen seeping from between her legs.

Voldemort broke away, chortling with chilling amusement at his parting words to Granger. "You're right, young Malfoy - that filth never will forget her first time. You did use her _quite_ thoroughly. So I suppose we should refer to the creature as your Mudblood now, rather than Potter's?"

"Yes, my lord. I should be very grateful." Draco thanked him, grey eyes downcast.

"Very well, so be it," the Dark Lord said. He leaned forward, eagerly. "Now, tell me, were there any casualties other than Dumbledore and your Mudblood's innocence?"

(x) (x) (x)

It was an incongruously beautiful day for a funeral, thought Hermione. The sky was cloudless and blue, a near-miracle in Scotland, and the summer breeze carried the scent of heather from the distant hills. Along with Harry, Ron, and Ginny, she filed quietly into a row near the back. She saw Harry, out of the corner of her eye, glaring at Fudge, Scrimegour, Umbridge and the other Ministry officials jockeying for position in the front rows.

Hermione bowed her head as the tufty-haired officiant began speaking, and kept it lowered as the eulogy droned on. It looked like she was praying, but in reality she let her mind drift along with the minister's words.

" . . . intellectual contribution . . . " Hermione's mouth twisted down at that phrase. Her own considerable intellect had contributed - albeit unwittingly - to Dumbledore's demise. She had been appalled on the night of the battle when Harry told her that Malfoy had repaired a Vanishing Cabinet and used it to transport a squad of Death Eaters into the castle. She knew immediately that he had managed to do that only by taking advantage of her tutoring in Arithmancy. To Hermione, the way Malfoy had used her mind was even worse and more unforgivable than the way he had used her body.

" . . . devoted his life to the battle against evil . . . " the black-robed wizard intoned. Evil was such a strong word, Hermione thought. She had told Harry as much when he was berating himself over trusting the Half-Blood Prince's book, over trusting Professor Snape. And Harry said the same her when she cried and raged about Malfoy, the evil ferret. Harry had heard Malfoy on the Astronomy Tower, how terrified he sounded for his mother, and thought he never would have murdered Dumbledore, that the headmaster still would be alive if Snape had not shown up. Hermione was not so sure, having had intimate experience with Malfoy's ruthless side.

Hermione managed to keep from crying until the centaurs' final salute. As the magnificent creatures melted into the Forbidden Forest and the mourners left their seats, hot tears welled up in her eyes. She looked to her friends, seeking comfort, but Lavender was sobbing gustily in Ron's arms (with no impact on her heavy eye make-up, Hermione noted with a touch of cattiness), while Harry and Ginny were caught up in an intense conversation a small distance away. From the blazing expression on the redhead's pretty face and regretful, loving look in Harry's emerald eyes, Hermione was fairly sure he was breaking up with Ginny out of some misguided belief that it would keep her safe. Once, Hermione had fooled herself into thinking she had seen that same look in Malfoy's silver eyes, directed at her, until she realized just how much of a dupe she had been.

"Excuse me, Granger. May I have a word?" Blaise Zabini interrupted her bitter thoughts with polished courtesy.

The use of her last name in that supercilious drawl - did they practice it in the Slytherin common room? - ignited her temper. Hermione swiped the tears from her eyes before turning to glare at Malfoy's best friend. "You may have two. Go away," she enunciated.

Two spots of dark red appeared on the Slytherin's high cheek bones. "Please don't shoot the messenger," he requested, with a stiff formality. "I have been asked to remind you that we serpents often speak with a forked tongue. It's a matter of self-preservation in our House, to not always mean what we so convincingly say."

Hermione thought he was mocking her, seeking her out to dig the knife in her heart a bit deeper. _Merlin, I was so stupid, thinking Malfoy actually meant his sweet words and even sweeter kisses_. "I'm well aware that snakes aren't to be trusted, Zabini. Now go find someone else to bother. I'm not in the mood." She drew her wand in silent threat.

Zabini eyed the vine wood in her hand with wary eyes but stood his ground. "Draco didn't tell me everything that happened, but I know enough Arithmancy to put two and two together - "

"Don't you dare finish that sentence," Hermione warned, uncontrolled sparks flying from the tip of her wand in her anger, thinking he had brought up that subject in an attempt to blackmail her for her unwitting role in helping to fix the Vanishing Cabinet. "I've already informed Professor McGonagall and the Aurors what Malfoy did, how he used me."

"Er, well, than there's nothing more I can say," Zabini said, refusing to meet her eyes. "I'll just be going."

"Hullo, Hermione!" a pair of cheery voices broke in, speaking in chorus.

She spun around, smiling despite herself. "Fred? And George?"

Fred beamed at her, while George gave Zabini a nasty look. "Is this wanker bothering you, Hermione? Because while brawling at a funeral is usually considered poor manners, we can make an exception for a snake."

"I think that exception is memorialized the etiquette books," Fred said seriously. "At least the one that we read. Something about driving serpents out and making them eat dust."

"That sounds vaguely biblical," Hermione noted.

"Yeah, that's what it's called - the Bible. It's one of Dad's Muggle books. Lots of stuff about smiting. And sheep," Fred waggled his eyebrows. "Your parents don't keep sheep, do they, 'Mione?"

Hermione shook her head and giggled despite herself, particularly since Zabini had slunk away at the Weasley twins' timely intervention. George looked at his retreating back with some regret. "It's a pity. I really would like to pummel someone right now."

"Anger is better than crying and feeling sad," Fred agreed, wisely. "And laughter beats the pants off both any day."

"Which is why we're expanding our joke shop," George chimed in.

"Hermione's not in the mood to talk shop," Fred said accurately, draping a friendly arm over her shoulder. "Jokes, on the other hand . . . "

"Have you heard the one about the two Death Eaters who walked into a Muggle biker bar?" George asked.

Hermione shook her head. Fred grabbed her hand, drawing her towards the shores of the lake. "Aren't you in for a treat, then?"

Half an hour later, Hermione's sides ached from laughter.

"And that's why they call him Mouldy Shorts! Get it?" Fred asked, delivering the punch line of yet another dirty joke.

"That's just vile!" Hermione choked out.

"But hilarious," George noted.

"Hilariously vile," Fred added.

"Good 'ol Mouldy Shorts," George sighed theatrically. "Betcha you'll never look at a Death Eater in quite the same way."

"Not at all," Hermione agreed, laughing despite herself. A short distance away, she noticed that Dolores Umbridge was watching them, her toad-like lips pursed in disapproval as she spoke with none other than Pius Thicknesse, who gave Hermione a pleasant smile and nod. Hermione returned his greeting as a matter of courtesy, even though thinking about the proprietary way Malfoy had introduced her to the Ministry official made her stomach churn.

Umbridge raised her voice, ensuring she would be overhead. "Of course, there were those students whose delinquent tendencies could not be corrected, even by the most advanced pedagogical methods."

The twin pranksters exchanged grins, looking absurdly flattered.

"D'ya reckon she's talking about us, Gred?"

"I believe so, Forge. Pity we didn't bring the latest generation of our Weasleys' Wildfire Whiz-Bangs." George turned to Hermione. "We now have fireworks enchanted to look like all kinds of magical creatures. We could've had a flaming centaur chase her off the grounds."

Fred shrugged it off. "You're the one who said fireworks were too much for a funeral. I think Dumbledore would've loved it, myself."

Umbridge grew even more shrill, incensed that they were ignoring her. "As for some of the other undesirables, all that I can say is that blood will out." She smiled sweetly at Hermione, as though she knew a secret. "Fortunately, I have every reason to believe exciting changes will be coming to the Ministry _very_ soon!"

Despite the warmth of the late June day, Hermione shivered at the threat implied in those gleeful words. Malfoy had warned her that Muggleborns would be targeted by the Ministry. As much as she hoped he was wrong, she feared that he was right. She sneered defiantly, both at the odious Umbridge and the thought of the blond Death Eater pretending to care about her well-being.

Fred tweaked a curl to regain her attention. "So, are you coming to the Burrow for Bill and Fleur's wedding?" he asked, with studied nonchalance.

"Of course!" she replied. "I wouldn't miss it for the world!"

"Excellent! First dance is mine," Fred said, with a wink and a grin.

"Sure," Hermione agreed, blushing as his fingers brushed against hers. Unless she was sorely mistaken, the look in Fred's eyes was neither brotherly nor platonic.

George dissolved the awkward moment by extracting an assortment of candies and a hip flask from his pockets. "Honeyduke's finest and the Hog's Head's strongest. Cheers!"

Fred reached for the Firewhiskey, while Hermione took a chocolate frog. The redhead raised the flask in a salute towards Dumbledore's tomb. "Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we may - ."

"Don't say it!" implored Hermione.

"Tomorrow we may fight," George finished for his twin, his freckled face grim. He grabbed the flask from Fred and took a swig of the whiskey before passing it to Hermione.

"Tomorrow we may _live_," she edited, taking a sip.

"Tomorrow we may love," Fred offered, with a sidelong glance and playful nudge to her ribs as she handed him the flask. "That's what Dumbledore would have wanted."

Over his shoulder, she could see Harry and Ron, her boys standing tall and determined and smiling at her despite the sad, solemn occasion. Basking in the golden sunshine and the comfort of her friends, Hermione nodded in silent but heartfelt agreement.

**A/N: Portions of the dialogue in the Gryffindor common room and on the Astronomy tower are re-purposed from HBP.**


	12. Chapter 12: July-August 1997

**_July-August 1997_**

Blaise rolled his eyes as Draco looked moodily over Lago Maggiore, his grey eyes fixed on the Alps in the distance. His blond friend had barely touched his dinner, though he had been drinking the strong Piedmontese wine like it was pumpkin juice since arriving by Portkey earlier in the evening. After two weeks in hiding at Snape's gloomy little house in a decaying Muggle mill town, the Dark Lord had given Draco permission to stay at the Zabini family's palatial, lakeside villa near the Italian-Swiss border, at least until the Ministry was co-opted enough for Draco to return to England.

"Stop pouting, Drake," the Italian boy urged. "Try enjoying _la dolce vita_ while you're here. There are worse places you could be. Like some shitehole of a Muggle mill town," he offered, brightly. "Or Azkaban."

"I'm not pouting, I'm brooding," Draco replied testily.

"You need to be dark and handsome like me to brood properly," Blaise declared. "As pale and pointy as you are, that expression on your face just makes you look like a smacked arse."

Draco made an obscene gesture in his best friend's direction and refilled his wineglass. Blaise raised his eyebrows. "Finish your risotto," he half-suggested, half-ordered. "It's the elves' speciality, so they'll sulk if you don't. And it may help sop up all the alcohol in your stomach."

"What's got your knickers in a twist anyways?" the dusky-skinned boy continued. "You successfully completed your task for the Dark Lord, though I'll be buggered if I know how you managed it. You should be relieved, not trying to single-handedly decimate my mum's wine cellars."

"Let's see," Draco said sarcastically, ticking off the points on his fingers. "I'm a wanted fugitive for my role in the murder of Albus Dumbledore. I can't go home, even though my mum needs my help in controlling her Death Eater houseguests and my father is being more of a brute to her than usual. I've got a fucking slave brand on my arm and it's just a matter of time until I get assigned another suicide mission."

"Well, aren't you just the poster child for joining the Death Eaters?" Blaise remarked sarcastically. He was shrewd enough to know that the Dark Lord wanted Draco to recruit him, and had permitted him to stay with the Zabinis for that reason. Blaise also thought it was more likely that his oft-married mother would take a vow of chastity and retire to a convent of Muggle nuns before he would voluntarily join the ranks of Voldemort's recruits.

Draco buried his white-blond head in his hands, voice muffled as he spoke through his fingers. "Oh, and Granger - who literally saved my life with her tutoring and kept me from going insane all year - now hates me like poison, worse than she ever did. She tried to gut me with a Dark curse the last time I saw her. Now, she's got a temper and maybe she's cooled off, but I'm fairly certain she still wants to hex my bits off. Unless you managed to talk her around?" he asked, sounding hopeful despite himself.

"I'm sorry, bro," Blaise sighed. "I kept trying to get her alone, but it was like she was glued to Potter or one of the Weasleys. The first chance I had to speak with her was at Dumbledore's funeral, and I cocked it up. She wouldn't even let me finish what I had to say."

Draco groaned into his hands. "You honestly couldn't find some better occasion to convey my apologies?"

"I don't think it would have mattered what I said or when I said it, Drake. Not after what you did."

"Go on, then," Draco said with impatience, raising his head from his hands. "Tell me the worst," he demanded hoarsely. "Exactly what you said to her and what she said to you."

At the end of Blaise's recitation, Draco's head was firmly back in his hands. "You pillock!" he fumed. "I _know _Granger, how she thinks. I've been inside that bushy, brilliant head of hers often enough. She thought you were making fun of her, and then trying to blackmail her. Honestly, I should have written out my apology in short little words for Goyle to deliver. He wouldn't have fucked it up so badly!"

Blaise glared back at his ingrate of a friend. "I did the best I could with your hot-headed little lioness, at no little risk of personal injury to myself. Granger pulled her wand on me, and then Weasley twins - remember them, the human Bludgers? - showed up and threatened to grind me into the dust!"

Dramatically, he threw up his hands. "I'm a lover, not a fighter!"

Draco's lips quirked. "Keep telling yourself that, you wannabe!"

Blaise grinned back at him, hopeful their spat had blown over. Even when things turned to shite, he knew that his theatrics and irrepressible ego could always cajole his best friend out of one of his black moods. "Puh-leeze, Drake! There is no 'wannabe' about it. I am now the undisputed, reigning Slytherin Sex God, especially since you've abdicated any claim to the title by deciding to pine over a Mudblood."

"A Muggleborn," Draco fiercely corrected.

The smile left Blaise's face, and he placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, bro. I didn't realize it was like that." He hesitated, and then continued with the painful truth his friend needed to hear. "You know it's never going to work with Granger, right? There's a war coming - hell, you fucking helped to start it up there on the Astronomy Tower - and you're on opposite sides. You're a Malfoy and she's a Mudblood." Deliberately, he emphasized the slur.

Despite a flicker of unease - he was staring a cold-faced Death Eater straight in the eye and telling him something he did not want to hear - Blaise pressed on. "The best thing you can do, Drake, is forget about her. Or at least try to remember that she's just a Mudblood. Nothing more than a toy, a pet, something that you use to scratch an itch."

"What the fuck is wrong with you? You never used to buy into this blood purity shite!" Draco exploded.

"I don't," Blaise shrugged. "But you did, and the crazy, mask-wearing fuckers you hang around with still do. You can't afford the distraction of caring about Granger as a person - it's only going to get you killed."

"Leave me alone, Blaise," Draco said finally, after a slightly hostile silence.

"I'll be inside if you need me, bro," said Blaise, taking his leave with a final, awkward pat to his friend's shoulder.

With his departure, Draco shifted his gaze back over the lake, watching how the setting sun colored the deep blue water. Logically, Blaise was right. As a matter of self-preservation, a Slytherin trait he highly valued, Draco knew he should try to put Granger out of his head or think about her in a more appropriate way, as a Mudblood he had shagged and not as a girl he cared about.

Still, he could not help but wonder where she was, if she was safe, if she was happy, and if she ever thought about him, the way he often thought about her.

(x) (x) (x)

"Alright there, Hermione?" Fred asked, coming up to her as she sat on a low stone wall, moodily watching a gnome in the Burrow's overgrown garden. For once, his smile was sympathetic rather than mischievous.

"Sure," she said, forcing a smile. She was vaguely surprised that Fred was alone, without George at his shoulder. She had not seen either twin since Dumbledore's funeral, having gone directly home to see her parents, though Fred had sent her a few owls and even a bouquet of flowers.

"Well, that's a whopper if I ever heard one," Fred commented, taking a seat next to her. "Ronniekins is practically cowering under the kitchen table after the tongue-lashing you just administered."

"Ron deserved it," Hermione huffed. "Honestly, you think a few Bat Bogey hexes from Ginny would have taught him not to blame a girl's bad mood on her monthly!"

"At least not when she can hear you," Fred agreed solemnly, even as his lips twitched in amusement. "But Ron's a slow learner. Now, tell Uncle Freddy what's wrong," he coaxed. "Unless it _is_ your monthly, because I really don't want to hear about that!"

"It's not that," Hermione shook her head. In truth, it would have been this week, except all of the contraceptive charms she had cast after her evening with Malfoy had thrown her cycle off. She finally had started a lighter than normal period - just spotting, really - two days after Dumbledore's funeral, two anxious weeks late, and now wasn't due again until the very end of July.

"Is it something I did?" Fred asked softly. "I would tell you I'm sorry about what happened on the night of Dumbledore's funeral, but . . . I'm really not." He flashed her a wicked smirk.

No, it's not that," Hermione reassured him. "It was perfectly lovely, and I _needed_ that sort of comfort."

"Me, too," Fred said, placing his hand on her knee and giving her a pat, in a gesture that she could take as either friendly or something more.

"It's my parents," she confessed. It would be a relief to get this out in the open, and Fred wasn't one to judge.

"Did you have a row?" the redhead guessed. "Usually you stay with them longer before coming to the Burrow."

Hermione's throat tightened. She always, _always_ spent July and early August with her parents, usually going away on holiday for a week or so. This year, they had planned a family trip to Australia, but she hadn't gone with them and they wouldn't be coming back.

"It wasn't a row. I used magic against them," she whispered. "A combination of memory charms and compulsion charms. Not quite the Imperius curse, not quite Unforgivable, but close . . . ." Her voice trailed off.

_You're a witch - make them go. _That had been Malfoy's cold-blooded advice and, Merlin help her, she had taken it. Hermione forced herself to continue, past the lump in her throat. "They're now convinced their names are Wendell and Monica Wilkins, and that their life's ambition is to move to Australia, which they now have done."

Fred regarded her, his blue eyes steady. "Why'd you do that?" There was no trace of condemnation on his face.

"I couldn't protect them," she admitted. "They're vulnerable because of me, but the Death Eaters shouldn't be able to find them now, in a different country with new names. And . . . and if anything happens to me, they should still be safe and happy. Wendell and Monica don't . . . they don't remember having a daughter." Tears filled her eyes as she recalled how she had disappeared from her family's photos.

Fred threw a comforting arm around her shoulder. "I'm sorry," he murmured into her hair. "If it's worth anything, I think you did the right thing. I would do the same, if mum and dad weren't magical."

"It's worth a lot," she said, shakily. "Thanks, Fred." As he hugged her into his chest, Hermione felt a thrill of attraction.

"D'ya want to take a walk with me? Down to the orchard?" he asked, with far less than his usual exuberant confidence.

"I'd like that," said Hermione, surprised again at how much she meant that. As Fred helped her down from the garden wall, she couldn't help but compare his freckly, square-shaped hand to Malfoy's, which had been pale and perfectly manicured, with elegantly long fingers. His parting words, whispered mockingly into her ear, echoed back at her. _Bye, Mudblood. You know what they say - you'll never forget your first_.

Hermione smiled up at Fred, just a little bit flirtatiously, and squeezed his hand. _Sod off, Malfoy. I can damn well try_.

(x) (x) (x)

In the second half of July, Draco found himself back in England, at Malfoy Manor. The Ministry had not yet fallen, but it was teetering, so much that there was no risk of a surprise Auror raid on the Manor.

He was seated at a long, polished table in the dining room, now appropriated for Death Eater meetings. Despite the roaring fire - in the middle of summer - the room was icy and eerily silent. Even with his mother's warning touch on his leg, he couldn't help himself from glancing up at unconscious and obviously brutalized woman revolving upside down over the table, like some grotesque chandelier.

He wished he was still in sunny Italy, observing Blaise's outrageous flirting with a jaundiced eye, or back at Hogwarts, or really anywhere except his ancestral home. Resolutely, Draco turned his eyes to the polished surface of the table, avoiding eye contact with anyone who might use Legilemency against him.

"Yaxley, Snape, you are very nearly late," his master said warningly from his seat at the head of the table.

Professor Snape showed no fear at the reprimand. "My lord, the Order of the Phoenix intends to move Harry Potter from his current place of safety on Saturday next, at nightfall," he announced, as soon as he was settled into his seat next to the Dark Lord.

Draco kept his pale head down as excitement swept the room at the prospect of a battle with the Light side. His eyes remained fixed on the tabletop as Yaxley disputed Snape's assertion, providing the contrary information he had received from the Aurors' Office. He did not look up when Yaxley proudly proclaimed he had successfully placed Pius Thicknesse, lately appointed to head the MLE, under the Imperius Curse. Still looking down, Draco blinked briefly at the intelligence that the Order, due to the Death Eaters' inroads, could not trust any form of Ministry-provided magical transportation. He wondered if Granger had succeeded yet in creating any bootleg Portkeys.

"Let's see . . . Lucius, I see no reason for you to have a wand anymore," Voldemort stated.

At that, Draco did look up, in shock. The Dark Lord might as well have announced he was taking Lucius's testicles. A wizard without a wand was no better than a Squib, or a Muggle. He braced himself for his father's protest and someone's torture - hopefully Voldemort would target Lucius, not Draco or his mother.

"My lord?" Draco's father questioned, not comprehending.

"Your wand, Lucius. I require your wand," the Dark Lord elucidated.

Under the table, Draco saw his mother very subtly touch his father's wrist, in a silent plea for him to bow to the inevitable. Lucius shut his eyes, as though in pain, as he removed his wand from his robes and passed it to their master.

Draco hid a malicious smile. Without his wand, his father's ability to abuse his mother would be severely curtailed. Narcissa could not hope to match Lucius's physical strength, and had far less knowledge of Dark curses, but she was a witch. His father, now unarmed, would raise a hand against her at his peril. Any temptation to smile evaporated, however, when his father stupidly made to reach for the Dark Lord's yew wand.

"Give you my wand, Lucius? _My _wand?" their master hissed in malicious amusement.

Several Death Eaters sitting around the table snickered at Lucius's frantic disclaimer and protestations. As much as Draco hated his father, he did not join in, knowing that his father's humiliation also was his family's humiliation. He turned his gaze upward, preferring to look at the broken woman levitating above the table rather than risk meeting the Dark Lord's red eyes.

His master now was mocking his mother and aunt because their half-blood niece had just married Remus Lupin, a werewolf and Draco's former DADA professor back in his third year. In those happier times, Draco had been so proud of his father's influence in getting the man removed from his teaching position and in getting that bloody hippogriff sentenced to death. Now, he tried to tune out the jeering Death Eaters, all gloating that the mighty Malfoys had fallen so low, until the Dark Lord asked him a direct question:

"What say you, Draco? Will you babysit the cubs?" His soft voice cut through with taunts and catcalls with chilling ease.

Caught off guard, Draco looked in panic to his parents for guidance on how to respond in a way that would not get any of them _Crucio'd_. Lucius refused to help, staring into his lap. His mother met his eyes and shook her head, in an almost unnoticeable gesture.

"Enough," the Dark Lord ordered, wearying of baiting the Malfoys.

Draco released a slow, relieved breath as his master's attention shifted to the woman floating above the table, who now was conscious and begging his godfather for help. "Severus! Help me!"

His relief at being overlooked by those cruel red eyes was premature. "Don't you recognize our guest, Draco?" Voldemort asked.

Jerkily, he shook his head, wanting to deny any connection to the doomed prisoner. Her face was too battered to be recognizable, but her voice was vaguely familiar to Draco. With a chill, he hoped it wasn't Granger's mum, whom he had seen and overheard a few times on Platform 9 and 3/4.

"Of course, you would not have taken her classes."

With that hint, Draco realized that the woman taught Muggle Studies at Hogwarts. With a hint of hysteria, he thought to himself that there now would be yet another staff position to fill. He forced himself to pay attention, as the Dark Lord listed the teacher's capital crimes.

" . . . last week, Professor Burbage wrote an impassioned defense of Mudbloods in the _Daily Prophet_. Wizards, she says, must accept thes thieves of their knowledge and magic. The dwindling of purebloods is, says Professor Burbage, a most desirable thing. She would have us all mate with Muggles . . . or, no doubt, werewolves."

Draco cringed, hoping that anyone who noticed his reaction would attribute it to the humiliation of his half-blood cousin marrying a werewolf. In reality, it was shame. He knew Granger had never stolen a thing in her life, let alone magic or magical knowledge. To the contrary, she had generously shared with him. He stared down at the table, hiding his knowledge of the Dark Lord's hypocrisy, since his own mother had mated with a Muggle.

"_Avada Kedavra_." With a jet of green light, Voldemort ended the teacher's life. Draco fell from his chair in an effort to avoid the falling body, swallowing down bile as he witnessed his second murder.

"Dinner, Nagini," the Dark Lord called cheerfully. "Now, who would like to volunteer for Saturday's mission?"

He looked around the room expectantly, his red gaze pausing on his youngest Death Eater in the act of retaking his seat. "Draco, how about you? I've been told you're a decent flyer - perhaps you can help catch Potter even if you can't beat him to the Snitch?"

(x) (x) (x)

On the Saturday night before Harry's birthday, Hermione propped herself against Petunia Dursley's spotless dishwasher, stomach roiling with anxiety as Moody explained the plan to move him to safety.

"As Dedalus probably told you, Harry, we had to abandon Plan A. Pius Thickness has gone over, which gives us a big problem," the grizzled ex-Auror growled. "He's made it an imprisonable offense to connect this house to the Floo Network, place a Portkey here, or Apparate in or out. In short, Thicknesse thinks he's got you cornered good and proper," Moody concluded.

"So what are we going to do?" Harry asked.

"We're going to use the only means of transport left to us: brooms, thestrals, and Hagrid's motorbike," answered Mad-Eye.

Moody had withdrawn the flask of Polyjuice from his cloak, and Harry was predictably protesting, quite loudly. "No way!" he shouted. "If you think I'm going to let six people risk their lives - "

"I told them you'd take it like this," Hermione said, amused despite the seriousness of the situation.

Harry objected a bit more, but finally reached up and pulled several strands of hair, flinging them into Moody's flask. The potion frothed and smoked and turned a bright, metallic gold.

"Ooh, you look much tastier than Crabbe or Goyle," she blurted out, thinking of the Polyjuice potion she had brewed back when she was twelve.

"What the hell, 'Mione?" Ron asked, raising his eyebrows.

She flushed beet-red to the roots of her hair, utterly mortified. "Oh, you know what I mean - Goyle's potion tasted like bogies." Hermione shoved aside the thought that she knew what one Slytherin tasted like, and not just his mouth.

"Lay off her, Ronniekins," Fred ordered.

Still blushing, she accepted an eggcup-sized glass from Mad-Eye Moody and swigged it down. It didn't taste nearly as awful as the potion she had adulterated with cat hair, and the transformation was less painful than she remembered as well. At least this time, she did not wind up with fur and a tail, but as one of seven Harry Potters.

"Wow - we're identical!" George and Fred exclaimed in unison, always ready for a joke.

"I dunno, though, I think I'm still better-looking," said Fred, examining his reflection in a well-shined tea kettle, shooting Hermione a wink.

Like all of the other six Harry doppelgängers, Hermione quickly shucked off her own clothes and replaced them with a set of boys' clothes. As she pulled off her shirt, Fred leaned over and whispered into her ear. "That's a lot sexier when you have your own body. Meet me in the orchard once the Polyjuice has worn off?"

She smirked back at him. "It's a date," Hermione said, for his ears only.

"Good," Moody said, once they were all dressed and spectacled. He parceled them out in their previously agreed-upon pairs, grabbing Mundungus by the collar to accompany him.

Hermione went over to Kingsley Shacklebolt, nervously eying his racing broom. After some thought, she had agreed to go by broomstick. The Auror had gravely offered to ride on a thestral, having been told she was uncomfortable flying by broom, but she had declined. She had no doubt that most Death Eaters had seen someone die - probably had taken part - and would be able to see and shoot at a thestral.

She took a deep breath to focus herself. If there were Death Eaters watching the Dursleys' house - and there almost certainly were - they were most likely to pursue Mad-Eye and Shacklebolt, who they would perceive as the most capable guardians. She had to be prepared to fight. _You're a powerful witch, not a pretty piece of baggage_. Hermione was determined to make Malfoy and his mask-wearing friends rue the day he taught her how to fight on a broomstick.

Looking at Kingsley's tall, broad figure, she realized there was a problem. If she sat in front of him, she would not have a clear shot at Death Eaters flying behind. "Auror Shacklebolt?"

"Please, Hermione, call me Kingsley," he rumbled in a friendly fashion.

"Is there any reason why I can't ride behind?" she asked.

"No, so long as you can hold on to my waist or the broom," he answered.

She regarded the broom thoughtfully, chewing her lip and thinking back to childhood visits with her Grandpa Reg, playing with his military medals as he told her stories about his time in the RAF. "Is there any reason why we can't sit back to back? I'll have a better shot at the Death Eaters chasing us," Hermione suggested.

Kingsley looked thoughtful in turn. "I've never heard of anyone doing that. It's unorthodox, but I can't think of any reason why not."

"It's what Muggles did in World War II with their airplanes," Hermione offered. "The pilot would face forward, of course, while the tail gunner faced backwards. That was what my grandfather did, fighting the Nazis."

"Nazis?" Kingsley looked puzzled, so she inferred he was a pureblood.

"The Muggle world's equivalent of Death Eaters," she explained briefly. "My grandfather's job was to shoot them out of the sky."

Kingsley's white teeth flashed in a brief smile. "Let's hope that runs in the family, then."

"All right, then," said Moody. "Everyone ready, please."

Hermione hurriedly mounted the broomstick, facing to the rear. Hagrid, with the real Harry uncomfortably scrunched in a side car, started his motorbike with a roar.

"Good luck, everyone," Mad-Eye shouted over the din. "On the count of three. One. Two. THREE!"

The racing broom shot upwards like a cork from a bottle, Hermione clinging with her left hand and legs, with her wand ready in her right hand.

"Oh, Godric," she muttered as, with a series of pops, their group was surrounded by at least thirty hooded Death Eaters, outnumbered by more than two to one. "_Stupefy_!" she screamed, aiming at the nearest masked figure. The red beam of light hit the Death Eater squarely in the chest and he tumbled off the broom, hitting the ground meters below with a sickening thud. She saw Mad-Eye give her a quick thumbs-up before he and Kingsley streaked off in opposite directions.

Five Death Eaters gave chase. Still shaken by the death she had caused, Hermione tried to avoid hexing them, focusing on shielding Kingsley. Quickly, she realized that was not going to work - she had to thin their numbers.

Three of the five were flying in a way that looked naggingly familiar, with two heavyset Death Eaters flanking a third, who flew with a darting, quick gracefulness. She has been forced to watch enough Quidditch to recognize two Beaters protecting a Seeker, and suspected it was Crabbe, Goyle and Malfoy beneath the hoods.

She took careful aim at one of the Beater's brooms. "_Reducto_!" she shrieked, still not accustomed to hearing Harry's voice instead of her own. The broom dissolved into dust between the bulky Death Eater's legs. He flailed helplessly in the air, but if he knew a simple Levitation Charm - doubtful if it was Crabbe or Goyle - her spell wouldn't kill him.

"Greg!" The Seeker shouted, hitting him with a spell to slow his fall. Hermione narrowed her eyes - she knew that voice. It _was_ Malfoy. He screamed a command, causing a second masked flyer - probably Crabbe - to zoom underneath Goyle and grab him by the arm, flying away from the combat zone.

Hermione smiled briefly at having taken two more Death Eaters out of the fight without having to kill, a smile that was wiped off her face as Voldemort appeared behind them, flying through the air without the need of a broomstick or any other support.

"It's him," she yelled frantically in Kingsley's ear. He engaged in a series of rapid rolls and spins, as the Dark Lord sent bolts of green light in their direction. Hermione sent every dark and destructive curse she knew at Voldemort - _Confringo_, _Sectumsempra_, _Expulso_ \- but he or his Death Eater minions blocked them all. Her most effective spell was the _Oppungo_ she cast on a flock of starlings, until one of Death Eaters vanished the poor birds into a vortex.

Abruptly, Voldemort disengaged, disappearing as suddenly as he had appeared. That left three Death Eaters in pursuit. Kingsley summarily dealt with one, with a bellowed cutting curse that sliced the man's wand arm to the bone.

Hermione screamed in fear as Malfoy, flying within a few meters to her right, swerved towards them with his wand up. Quicker than thought, Hermione raised her wand to hex him. She could not bring herself to hurt him, but she had to incapacitate him, and she had owed him this one for years.

"_Densaugeo_!" she cried.

"Fuck!" yelled Malfoy, his last comprehensible word as his front teeth grew rapidly, elongating to emerge beneath his Death Eater's hood. Unable to cast a spell, he wheeled away, flying off in the opposite direction. The last Death Eater, realizing he was outnumbered, also retreated, with Kingsley's Stunner flying wide over his head.

After that, they were unimpeded in their flight to Shacklebolt's home, a sprawling Georgian manor that confirmed to Hermione he was from one of the old pureblood families. It would be impossible to maintain a place like this on an Auror's salary.

They landed with a soft thump in the garden. Hermione flung herself off the broom and began retching in one of the flowerbeds, replaying the sickening sound made by the Death Eater she had stunned when he was dashed against the ground. She had killed someone, and she could only hope it was not one of her Hogwarts classmates, not even a creep like Nott.

Kingsley comfortingly patted her back. "You did well, Hermione," he praised. "I can't of anyone who I would rather have guarding my back. Your grandfather would be proud."

He held out a bent coat hanger for her to grasp, one of her own Portkeys. "Let's get to the Burrow, see how the others fared."

(x) (x) (x)

For once, Draco was enjoying a pleasant morning at Malfoy Manor, with just his mother. For elevenses, they had eschewed the formal dining room for her sunny conservatory, with tea and Draco's favorite biscuits laid out on the wrought iron table. Three house-elves worked quietly among the plants, with wickedly sharp shears sized to their bodies. Narcissa was a cautious woman, and, with Death Eaters in the Manor, always made sure she was accompanied by a small retinue of fiercely loyal little elves.

Even though none of the seven Harry Potters had been killed or captured in the aerial battle the night before, the Dark Lord's wrath had fallen on Ollivander the wandmaker, not Draco or any of the other Death Eaters. After torturing the poor old man into unconsciousness, the Dark Lord had left for parts unknown, taking Bellatrix with him. Draco very carefully repressed the thought that if they never came back, it would be too soon.

"You seem to be in a good mood, darling," Narcissa observed. "Teeth all better?"

"Yes, Mother. Thank you for fixing them last night," he replied, running his tongue over his two front teeth, now shrunk to their normal size.

Draco could not stop a goofy grin from crossing his face. He ordinarily would not be so pleased about being hexed in the face, by Harry Potter no less, but he was positive it had been Granger under the Polyjuice potion. Her choice of hex proved that. She was the type of girl who gave as good as she got - a trait he found dead sexy. Draco hoped that her decision to use a relatively harmless jinx against him, rather than the dark and potentially fatal _Sectumsempra _she had employed before_, _meant that she was thawing towards him, and could eventually forgive him.

Narcissa gave him a knowing smile. "Who is she, my dragon? Clearly not Pansy."

"No one you know, Mother," Draco said honestly, not even trying to dissemble. His mum knew him too well. His father often derided her as stupid, but in reality Narcissa was clever, shrewd, and almost impossible to fool.

"I wish circumstances were different, that we could have your young lady over to the Manor, to meet her properly," Narcissa said wistfully.

Draco could not help the impolite snort that escaped from him at that absurdity. "Sorry, Mum. Not going to happen."

Her face fell, returning to its usual smooth mask. She sipped her tea. "I have not had much opportunity to speak with you since you came back from Italy, my dragon," his mother said, with a note of concern. "Bella told me about your exploits with the Granger girl."

From her downturned mouth, it was clear she disapproved, probably due to Granger's blood status.

He frowned. "Leave it, Mother," he said harshly. "It was just a shag. That's all that Mudbloods are good for."

"Draco . . . I don't like it when you say things like that." Narcissa looked troubled to see him speaking like his father. "I did not raise you to treat any witch - any young woman - as deplorably as you treated Miss Granger. Even if she is Muggleborn."

Draco was frankly shocked that his mother - who believed in pureblood supremacy, even if she shuddered at the violent means necessary to achieve it - would take him to task for what he had done to Granger. He had to wonder exactly what his Aunt Bellatrix had heard from the Dark Lord and related to his mum.

"It was just a shag," he reiterated, in a different tone, feeling slightly ashamed that his mother believed he had mixed violence with sex. "Granger's fine, mum. Well enough to hex me with beaver teeth, anyways."

"That was her wand work?" his mother asked, surprised but not especially exercised on his behalf. Her blue eyes held his grey ones, searching for something, then inhaled audibly at what she found. "So she's the one . . . . "

"Good morning, Narcissa, Draco," his godfather's voice smoothly interrupted them, before his mother could pry into any more of his secrets. "Have you met Albert Runcorn? He's the newest member of the Hogwarts Board of Governors and head of the Ministry's Department of Magical Education."

"Charmed," Narcissa said, holding out her hand. Draco merely nodded.

The tall, dark-haired man kissed Narcissa's hand and then smiled broadly at Draco. "Congratulations on your appointment as Head Boy, Mister Malfoy. Your badge will come next week by owl, but I wished to inform you in person."

"I'm Head Boy?" Draco asked, taken aback. Even with Granger's tutoring, his marks had not completely recovered from the hit they had taken when he was focused on mending the Vanishing Cabinet. And that was setting aside his role as an accomplice to the headmaster's murder. "What about Entwhistle and Boot?" He knew the two Ravenclaws had better marks than he.

"Ah, yes. Mr. Boot has some undesirable associations and Mr. Entwhistle will not be attending Hogwarts this year," Runcorn explained.

"I see," Draco said, slowly. One of Boot's grandparents was a Muggle and he had been part of Dumbledore's Army, either of which could be considered undesirable, while Entwhistle was a Mudblood. That explained why Draco had gotten Head Boy, as the pureblooded wizard with the highest class rank, but not why Entwhistle would be leaving Hogwarts. "Who is Head Girl?" he asked.

"Mandy Brocklehurst," Professor Snape answered, with a warning look.

"What's she like, Draco?" his mother asked, curious.

"Quiet, dumpy and frumpy," Draco sneered. "She is a pureblood, though, and smart enough. I think she was ranked second in our class." Well behind Granger, who should have Head Girl, he thought bitterly.

"Yes, well, Headmaster Snape will be relying on you and Miss Brocklehurst to help keep order at the school," Runcorn said. "There may be upset, especially on the first day."

"Severus, you've been appointed headmaster?" his mother asked. "That's wonderful."

Snape's eyes glittered and he looked as though he had swallowed something sour. "There has been no official announcement as of yet, Narcissa."

"You can rely on my discretion," she reassured him.

"Pardon me, sir," Draco asked Runcorn politely, "but what sort of upset are you anticipating?"

"My appointment as headmaster will become public on September 1," Professor Snape answered, with a sardonic twist of his lips. "And some half-bloods and blood traitors among the student body may be out of sorts at seeing their friends and classmates arrested on Platform 9 and 3/4 and sent off to Azkaban for stealing a wand."

"Not just stealing a wand, Severus," Runcorn said gravely. "Stealing our magic."

Draco kept his face a bored mask, allowing his mother to fish for information.

"Oh, yes, the Dark Lord said something about that," Narcissa said, vaguely. "Isn't there some new commission?"

"The Muggleborn Registration Commission," Runcorn related eagerly. "To be headed by Dolores Umbridge. You know dear Dolores, don't you?"

"Of course," Draco readily agreed. "I was one of the members of her Inquisitorial Squad during fifth year."

Inwardly, he was shaken. Umbridge _loathed_ Granger and would love nothing more than to send the girl to Azkaban without a trial, on the most ridiculous of trumped-up charges. Between the human guards and the Dementors, Draco doubted Granger would last a week in the wizarding prison. Which meant, he realized with a sick feeling in his stomach, he would have to find some way to inform her about the plan to round up Mudbloods.

His mother gave him a subtle, measuring look before turning her formidable smile on the two older wizards. "Are you gentlemen staying for lunch? I'll have the elves prepare something special, to celebrate these two appointments."

Runcorn answered for them both. "I am afraid not, dear lady. We will be having a working lunch with the inner circle."

The man seemed very impressed with his own self-importance. Draco internally sneered at Runcorn's ignorance, not realizing he would be dining with a bunch of homicidal nutters.

"A pity," Narcissa murmured. "Perhaps some other time."

The two men took their leave with formal politeness to the lady of the Manor. After their departure, mother and son sat in silence, broken only by the soft clicking of the elves' shears.

"My sister Andromeda turned her back on everything and everyone she knew, to marry a Muggleborn," his mother offered in a soft voice. "My parents disowned her. She was my father's favorite, but he never spoke to her again, except to spit on her and tell her she was no child of his."

"It was just a shag," Draco said for the third time, feeling extremely uncomfortable with where his mother was leading. He was only seventeen, for Salazar's sake!

"Perhaps," Narcissa said, in a neutral voice. "Though you have talked about Miss Granger more than any other girl of your acquaintance since you were eleven. If what happened between the two of were something more than a mere shag, I want you to know that I would never disown you, my son. Your happiness will always come first with me. But I implore you, Draco, to have a care, for your father and Bellatrix would not be so forgiving."

For once, Draco was at a complete loss what to say. "Thank you, Mum," he managed.

Narcissa nodded briskly. "Now, I believe you have an Owl to send? Why don't you go upstairs to your room to write that letter?"

Alone in his bedroom, Draco put quill to parchment, then hesitated. He needed to warn Granger, but the torture that awaited him if his letter fell into the wrong hands was a prospect that made his blood run cold. Self-preservation came much more naturally to him than bravery.

After a moment's thought, he smirked to himself at the solution. _Dear Blaise,_ he began, quill scratching on parchment. It would be in character for him to write a letter to his best friend boasting about his appointment as Head Boy and gloating about the changes that were coming to Hogwarts. And if that letter were misdirected to the wrong address, no one would blame him.

A few minutes later, he read over his letter with satisfaction. It was perfectly prattish and Granger would be furious when she read it. Following a brief internal debate, he added a postscript, charmed to appear for her eyes alone, when she was alone. It was a calculated risk, but one Draco felt was worth running.

_Princess - what you once felt towards me, I still feel towards you. Malfoys don't beg, and we don't apologize . . . but I truly am sorry and hope that you will someday forgive me. And please, please keep that bushy head of yours down and stay out of trouble. With all my love and respect, D. _

It wasn't perfect, but it would do. Draco whistled softly to his eagle owl, dozing on his perch in the corner. "Wake up, boy. I have an important delivery for you."

(x) (x) (x)

Purus spread his wings and caught a downdraft, gliding steadily southward and west towards Devon.

In his talons, the eagle owl clutched two official letters from Hogwarts, addressed to a place called the Burrow. These usually were delivered by the school owls, but his young master had been very clear - Purus needed to intercept these letters and deliver them himself. Fortunately, he was a large bird and the school owls were lazy, so he had only had to mantle his wings and hiss a few times before the letters were relinquished to him.

He also had a third letter, a personal letter from his master to his dark friend, the one who lived on a lake near large mountains with excellent alpine meadows for hunting. That friend lived far away, a three-night flight to the south even for a magical eagle owl. However, his master had ordered him to deliver that letter to this Burrow as well, even though it was the wrong address. This was puzzling to the owl, but he was a loyal familiar and would do what he was told.

Purus only hoped that this Burrow had food, because he was quite peckish after flying all night. The name, at least, was promising to an owl who liked to hunt rodents who hid in burrows. He also could smell frying sausages and bacon - his favorite - as he approached the oddly crooked house.

His reception, however, was not what he expected. No sooner had Purus flown through the open kitchen window than he was greeted with leveled wands, humans yelling and jumping out of their chairs, and a miniature owl rocketing around his head, emitting squeaky hoots of excitement.

"It's Malfoy's owl!"

"Hex it - it probably has a curse in those envelopes!"

"Pig - get away from that bird!"

"_Avada_ \- "

"Ron, no! Not after what happened to Hedwig!"

"Geroff me, Fred!"

"Quiet! Sit down, all of you!" This was from the curly-haired witch he liked. She always thanked him and gave him bacon, which she did now. Purus was amused at how the redheads obeyed her, an emotion he expressed by opening his orange eyes wide. He then clacked his beak in annoyance at the hyperactive little owl when it flitted too close.

"Purus, would you please hop onto the counter over here? Just ignore Pig," the witch requested.

Of course, Purus obeyed her immediately. His orange eyes did not miss much, and, as a familiar, he was attuned to his master's moods. Human courtship rituals made no sense to the eagle owl - why not just offer the female a nice potential nest and sing to her? - but he suspected the girl was his master's secret mate. Plus, she had bacon.

She commenced muttering a series of revealing spells at the letters he carried. "They aren't jinxed, hexed or cursed; there are no tracking charms; and they aren't Portkeys. Anyone else care to check?" the witch asked, with a note of challenge.

The owl watched the humans shake their heads. The curly-haired girl handed out the Hogwarts letters to two of the gingers.

"There isn't one for me?" she asked, disappointed.

"Maybe the school doesn't know you're here, 'Mione," one of the identical humans suggested.

"Harry didn't get one either," the second identical human pointed out.

"Yes, but he's concealed under all sorts of charms. It's no secret that I'm here. And I've gotten my Hogwarts post at the Burrow before." The curly-haired girl sounded puzzled, and more than a bit worried.

"Maybe Malfoy's owl couldn't carry your letter, 'cuz the Head Girl badge made it too heavy," the red-haired girl laughed.

Purus ruffled his feathers, insulted. He was capable of carrying quite sizable packages of sweets and cakes between Wiltshire and Scotland. Unlike the feathery rat still flying around the kitchen like a mad thing, a fourth letter would have been no burden for an owl of his strength and wingspan. He hooted to get the curly-haired one's attention, extending his leg for her to take the third letter.

"This is addressed to Blaise Zabini," she protested. "It's not for me."

Purus persisted, shaking his leg.

"Take it, Hermione," urged a boy with messy dark hair and glasses. "It may tell us what the Death Eaters are planning."

She rolled her eyes him, making no move to take the letter even as Purus nudged her with his beak. "Right, Harry, because the Death Eaters don't have any more secure method of communicating their evil plans than by Owl Post."

Harry reached around her and snagged it, ignoring Purus's scandalized hoot in protest.

"Maybe it's a luuurve note," suggested the non-identical red-haired boy through a mouthful of scrambled eggs. Purus made sure to swipe his tail feathers through the remaining eggs on the boy's plate.

"Between the two sex gods of Slytherin?" scoffed the red-haired girl. "I doubt it. It's probably Malfoy bragging about all the witches he's shagged lately."

"Ugh," said one of the two identical boys. "I never want to hear you use the words 'Slytherin' and 'sex' in the same sentence ever again, young lady. Do you hear me?"

"Or 'Malfoy' and 'shagged,'" the other twin shuddered theatrically. "You are our baby sister, after all."

"Hermione, you need to read this," the dark-haired boy said seriously, passing her the letter. "Malfoy made Head Boy, Snape - _sodding_ Snape - is going to be headmaster, and Umbridge is in charge of some new commission to round up Muggleborns."

She took it, looking more and more upset as she read. One of the identical ones stood behind her, a supportive hand on her shoulder as he read along.

"Blimey, Hermione," he said with sympathy, running a hand down her curly hair. "What a load of dragon dung!"

"It's alright," she said in a brittle voice, grabbing his hand and holding it. "It's not like I was planning to go back to Hogwarts anyways."

Purus watched as the girl crumpled the letter and threw it into unlit grate. He would have to retrieve it and try to get her to re-read the letter when he was alone, per his master's instructions, so she would be able to see the message he had written just for her.

With careful precision, the curly-haired girl laid her wand on the table. "So Umbitch and the Death Eaters claim I stole _my_ wand from a real witch, because I lack magic?" she hissed. "I'll show them a real witch." She pointed a finger, shaking with anger, towards the crumpled parchment. "_Incendio_!" Her wandless magic caused flames to roar up in the fireplace.

Purus hooted in distress as the letter turned into ash, with his young master's postscript unseen and unread.

(x) (x) (x)

Luna loved weddings. She loved putting on her bright yellow dress robes - a sunny color, as a way of wishing the newlyweds a marriage filled with light and warmth - and watching wizards and witches mingle, dressed in their finest clothes. She loved how the exchange of vows made most of the witches and some of the wizards cry, but in a happy way. She loved canapés and champagne, and she loved dancing to music only she could hear. The wedding between Fleur Delacoeur and Bill Weasley was no exception, at least until Death Eaters crashed the reception.

Luna was twirling on the dance floor, arms overhead, enjoying the creative expression brought on by the Gernumblies, a beneficial condition brought on by being bitten by one of the Burrow's garden gnomes, when a silver lynx leapt through the white roof of the tent to land gracefully in the middle of the tent. She stopped dancing to admire the gleaming corporeal Patronus, so different than her own hare, when it opened its mouth a spoke in a deep, slow voice. "_The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming_."

There was dead silence for just a moment. Then someone screamed and panic descended. People began pushing and shoving to find loved ones, or turning on the spot to Apparate away as the protective enchantments on the tent broke. A few people kept their heads - Luna glimpsed Lupin and Tonks, back to back, casting shield charms. Hermione was dragging Barry, the Poyjuiced Harry, through the crowd, calling for Ron. Both had their wands out, too. Luna raised her own wand and began casting _Protego_ after _Protego_ at the tent's walls as she wound her way through the crowd to her father.

"Should we go, Daddy?" asked Luna.

Xenophilius shook his head. He removed a pad of parchment and a self-writing Quick Quotes Quill from his robe pocket and placed them on a chair, hidden by the tablecloth. "If the Ministry has indeed fallen to the Rotfang Conspiracy, that is a very important story for me to cover." Her father puffed out his narrow chest. "The _Quibbler_ serves the governed, not the governors. But you should feel free to go home to the Rookery, my dear."

"I think I'll stay," Luna said placidly, still casting shield charms. "But I think it's Voldemort and his Death Eaters who brought the Ministry down." The cloaked, hooded and masked figures now appearing amongst the terrified crowd of wedding guests proved the truth of her words.

Two of the Death Eaters approached their table. "Where's Harry Potter?" one of them growled.

"He wasn't at the wedding," Xenophilius answered, with all sincerity. "Quite disappointing, because I was hoping for another world-exclusive interview about Albus Dumbledore's death. Are you part of the Rotfang Conspiracy?"

The second Death Eater twitched slightly at the mention of the headmaster. "What about the Weasel King and Granger?" he asked Luna. "Find them and you find Potter," he explained in an aside to his fellow Death Eater.

"Hullo, Draco," Luna said serenely. "Aren't you a bit warm under that mask?"

"Barmy bitch," muttered the other Death Eater. "I'll leave these two lunatics to you, Malfoy." With that, he stomped off to interrogate some of the other wedding guests.

"Why are you wearing a hooded cloak? It's a bit much for August, don't you think?" Luna queried.

"It's supposed to frighten people, but I guess it doesn't work," the Slytherin boy said sourly, stripping off his mask and dropping the hood of his black cloak to reveal his distinctive platinum-blond hair.

"Oh, I think it's very effective on most people," Luna consoled. "I just happen to think you have too much of a conscience to be a Death Eater."

"Yeah, well, I have a tattoo on my arm that says otherwise," he said with a twisted smile. "Now, where's Granger?"

"I thought she was the one you were looking for," Luna said, pleased to be proven right. "You normally don't like to be around Ron or Harry. She Apparated them away right before you got here."

"Everyone else we've spoken to says Potty wasn't here. Don't lie to me, Lovegood," Draco warned.

"He was using Polyjuice and calling himself Barry Weasley, but I could tell it was Harry by his expression," explained Luna.

"What, a combination of gormlessness and arrogance?" Malfoy muttered to himself.

"You needn't be jealous of Harry, Draco. He and Hermione are like brother and sister."

Draco pinched his nose, as though he felt a headache coming on. "Loony, do you know where Granger went?"

"Probably into the Muggle world. She is a Muggleborn witch, and very clever. She knows it won't be easy for Death Eaters to find her there."

"So she's gone, then." For just a second, an expression of tremendous relief softened Draco's pointed features, mixed with a flicker of sadness in his grey eyes. Then, his customary expression of bored arrogance shifted back into place. "I appreciate the information, Loony," he drawled.

"Don't worry, Draco," Luna counseled. "My mum always said things we lose have a way of coming back to us in the end."

He merely rolled his eyes and gave her and her father a curt nod, striding away to question someone else.

"If not always in the way we expect," Luna added softly.

**A/N: All done - at least for now! If you were hoping for a HEA, that's in the sequel, _The Ginger Malfoy_, which already is complete. This was a hard story for me to end, because I've truly enjoyed writing it. I thought about ending it with Dumbledore's funeral, which is how HBP ends, but decided to indulge myself with one more chapter to include some of the early events from Deathly Hallows. I am now marking this as complete, but may add outtakes in the future, if the inspiration strikes.**

**Some of the dialogue from the death of Professor Burbage and Battle of the Seven Potters is taken from DH, while Xenophilius's views on who a free press serves is borrowed from Justice** **Hugo Black. Luna's quote on finding lost things also is from OoTP.**


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